


Asuras

by Billywick, selwyn



Series: A Shudder Before The Beautiful (Transformers Roleplay fiction) [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7797427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>quo fata ferunt: where the fates bear us to.</p><p>Tarn lays in a prison cell, isolated and broken. Pharma steps inside as a reluctant savior before being tangled in an all too familiar trap of his own making. Falling has never felt so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (This is a behemoth of a roleplay which is loosely based on the happenings of MTMTE. As per usual for my uploaded roleplays, there is a lot of pov hopping. If that doesn't disrupt your enjoyment, I invite you to join our adventure. The parts will be posted in reading order and tagged by which pairing they address.)

The entire mess, in Ratchet’s irate words, could be summed up as  _ a damned fool’s quest to save more fools _ .

Optimus wasn’t sure who was the  _ fool  _ in all of this. Probably all of them. It’d worked out, kind of. Megatron was back in the medibay, under Ratchet’s care while Pulse fretted in the background. The  _ Lost Light _ was being towed behind the  _ Peaceful Destiny  _ while Rodimus tried to look like he wasn’t fretting over Megatron and just complaining about the bridge damages.

Optimus wasn’t fooled, but it was endearing in a vaguely annoying way. He left Megatron under Rodimus’ not-fretting-at-all care to check on the ship’s newest residents.

Tarn and his unit lived in the belly of the ship, firmly locked into place. They wouldn’t be able to move an inch, much less threaten anyone but…

Ratchet refused to treat them. Optimus tried to cajole, persuade, and guilt him, but he’d been adamant in his refusal. Pulse had taken one look at them before fleeing.

He had no choice. 

“They’re in dire need of medical attention,” he said gravely, “If you agree, you will be released as their temporary medic.”

 

He wanted to scream. Really, he did. He felt his vents flare slightly and his field tremble for just a split second, his faceplate even and serious. No one could know. No one could know that being near the DJD was just about the last thing he wanted in this universe. Well. Second to death. And imprisonment. Which is where Pharma had been spending some very, very dull time, ever since being pulled out of time by the Necrobot. He didn’t want to think of any reason for him being here, but apparently fate had planned for him to collide with Tarn again and again, until it killed him. 

Pharma met the Prime’s deeply blue optics. With a tempered, polite nod of his helm, he agreed to the deal, lifting up his cuffed servos.

“I can’t work like this. And I need a station.”

He could do this. He had to. He had no intention of returning to Cybertron a prisoner. Maybe, good conduct would convince the Prime and accursed Ratchet that Pharma held no ill will towards the Autobots that abandoned him. They didn’t know he’d already concocted a massacre once before. He could, if necessary, do it again. He just needed tools.

 

“I can handle that. Can you start now?”

Inwardly, Optimus sighed in relief. It wasn’t really a desire to save the DJD that’d compelled him. A part of him, small and inconsequential, would like them to live, but he would shed no tears if they’d all died.

But… he was just so  _ tired  _ of being surrounded by the dead. The DJD were casualties of this war. They were criminals and monsters and an affront to everything Optimus believed -- but he was done being a butcher. Enough was enough.

Megatron had been willing to go this far to face his mistakes. He’d been prepared to die for Tarn’s sake, whether he knew it or not. Optimus wouldn’t be the mech to let them rust into husks, then tell Megatron he could not nothing to stop it.

So he chose to keep his faith in Megatron. In Tarn. In Pharma.

Autobot fixing Decepticon. Healing old wounds, closing the chasm.

“They depend on you, Pharma.”

So he hoped.

 

A grimace had to be choked down at that. Oh, how bittersweet the irony. Pharma, for so long at the mercy of Tarn’s whims, now had his entire unit to care for. Immediately, he played with the thought of allowing Tarn to die. Perhaps even helping him along. He wouldn’t even be blamed for it. Too far gone, no way to save the despicable Decepticons. Oh it would be so easy.

“Then let’s not keep them waiting, Optimus Prime.”

Pharma kept a careful watch of the Prime’s reactions. Trusting. Or at least, unconcerned. Good, good. The Autobots needed to believe that his precautionary imprisonment had been a mistake, that there was no reason to distrust Pharma.

“I need to assess the damage done. Can you describe it?”

 

“They were hit with antimatter,” Optimus grimaced. “It made everything… rupture. They can’t stand, speak, move… we had to connect a tube to their internal pump to make sure they still had fuel. They’re all unresponsive. Healing stasis.”

The result had been… messy. Body parts had fallen off. Their frames were all cracked. Survival chances were low.

“You’re an excellent medic, Pharma. I trust you to repair them. Ratchet… refused to.”

 

“He would.” Pharma bristled at the mention of Ratchet. Whatever complicated mess his emotions towards that mech were would have to be dealt with later. He was about to receive the Prime’s approval and that counted for more in terms of trustworthiness. Hearing about the damage done to the DJD, Pharma felt a certain amount of glee. It served them right. Monstrous beings, all of them. Death would probably have been kinder.

“You’ll find I am much more suited to putting aside old grudges and doing as my medical code demands. I will need replacement parts if it is as extensive as you say. I imagine you don’t want me to restore all of their...combative abilities.”

 

“No. They only need to be functional. Everything else can wait.”

They walked down to where the DJD were kept. Each mech was stored in his own private cell, carefully sealed away. Tarn was closest to the entrance. His door was heavy, marked with an incongruous  _  01 _ . Inside, he slumbered on a berth.

Optics shattered. Fusion cannons gone. Servos ruined and unable to grip. Legs barely connected to his torso, hanging on to dear life with the grace of a few wires. Vocalizer gone, presumably melted thanks to the antimatter. Jagged holes throughout his whole frame from where the antimatter had burned through. His face, scarred and grey, finally maskless after all those millennia.

The remains of a once-feared legend.

“Can you repair him?”

 

It was...not the sight Pharma had expected. Yes, the Prime had described the damage done. Yes, antimatter was not a subtle weapon. And yes, Tarn did deserve everything that had been done to him. But to actually see the ravaged frame, so close to completely giving up what little spark remained...it was disgraceful. Tarn had always been a beacon of power. As much as Pharma hated him, he had to admire that. Power was beautiful, and Tarn had held it in his clutches.

Only to end up like this?

The cell was unnecessarily shielded, and slid open as soon as Pharma approached. Apparently, he already possessed permission to do so. The medic took a few steps, standing next to the slab that held what remained of his tormentor. A delicate blue servo landed on one of the marked, scorched shoulderplates. Tarn should never...look like this.

Without the mask, he was just a mech. A mostly dead one, at that. Scarred features that Pharma never had seen before. He was strangely not as repulsive as imagined. Pharma traced the curve of his helm, the holes where his optics should be resting.

“I can repair anything and anyone. I’ll start with him.”

-x-

Perhaps it might have been wiser to spread his time out equally among his patients. Pharma found out rather unkindly that antimatter damage disintegrated Cybertronians right down to their protoform, and that was tough to replace, although the Prime did procure a surprising amount of parts. Whether they were pilfered from bodies or brought along, it didn’t matter to Pharma. Although there was no spare set of red optics, so Tarn would have to make due with an oddly coloured pair. Hardly the biggest of his problems.

Fixing one member of the DJD instead of progressively repairing the damage on all of them was significantly more time consuming. And thorough. But it suited Pharma fine. No one else required his presence on board of the ship and he was thankfully alone with his unconscious patients. Good. He couldn’t stand being around the crew of the Peaceful Destiny. Or the crew of the Lost Light, for that matter. 

Days bled into weeks, weeks went by without notice. Pharma only stopped to recharge and refuel, working every angle of his craft. Professional pride had taken over the petty need for vengeance. These mecha were beyond anyone else’s skill. Ratchet couldn’t repair them even if he wanted to.

Today would mark the last of the direly needed repairs. Tarn was one mech again, joints repaired, limbs reattached, optics and vocalizer restored, although Pharma definitely employed the inhibitor handed to him by Pulse, far away from the brig. The last welding had to be done at Tarn’s legs and hipjoints, which required an awkward angle for Pharma to crouch over his patient’s interface panel plating. Not that Pharma cared, per say, he was perfecting his craft and turning a weld into an artform.

 

Self-repair was a slow, agonizing process. Tarn drifted in and out of consciousness, never able to fully grasp the thoughts that swam around him like so many quicksilver fish. Each time he tried, they darted through his digits and he sank back into the thick blackness, surrounded by humming machines and the soft sounds of someone tinkering.

While his frame was repaired, his processor did its best to reconnect snapped circuits. Pharma could fix Tarn’s processor all he wanted, but it would take only time before Tarn’s spark was able to make that connection between primal being and higher thought.

Until then, Tarn dreamed. He dreamed of betrayal and fire and a terrible burning deep inside him. These dreams were previously contained in his inert frame, but repairs slowly brought his body back under his control. He twitched -- small movements of his plating, nothing that afforded him leverage -- and tried to speak.

The first sound he made was a garbled mixture of static that aspired to be words. He tried to jerk forward but fell back with a clang, his restraints too powerful to let him thrash. He was still offline but more static poured out of him as Tarn battled his dreams.

 

Pharma had stilled the moment Tarn began to move and Primus forbid, try to speak. There was still a smidgen of fear that went through him at the first sign of life, which Pharma scolded himself for mentally. Tarn was in absolutely no position to have power over him now. His very life depended on the medic. There was nothing he could do to him.

Keeping that in mind, Pharma got up, putting his tools aside and walking around the prone tankformer to stand by his helm. A little injection of nanites ought to take the edge of off Tarn’s need to be so mobile. It wouldn’t do to have those newly attached limbs flailing around.

“Shh, now,” Pharma whispered, absurdly pleased by having such power over the defeated mech. Even if Tarn wasn’t awake for it.

 

His helm jerked around, unconsciously trying to locate the source of the noise. His face twisted into a snarl as more static mingled with words came out.

“Meg -- Mega -- you…  _ kill  _ y-y-youuuuu -- “ his speech derailed into a soft hiss as his vocalizer shorted out. Tarn struggled again, mouth moving but no sounds coming out. His limbs felt leaden and finally, some long-buried need for survival forced him awake.

Mismatched optics flared to life, painfully bright. They darted around, unseeing. His vision had yet to adjust and Tarn shook his helm again, trying to fight but failing.

 

Pharma needed to deal with this. A distressed patient made for unsightly welding mistakes and the rest of the repairs could wait. Besides, he wanted to bask in his moment, if it should be coming now, no matter if it was unexpectedly early. Both of his servos took hold of Tarn’s helm, forcing it still in their grasp as he leaned over, inspecting his patient’s odd optics. They responded, tracking his movement. Ah. So Tarn was awake. 

Pharma said nothing, checking the readings on his own systems. Distress, but nothing that undid the good work he’d done. So far.

“I am not calibrating your optics again, Tarn, so you better stop flaring them like that.”

 

Tarn’s foul reply was hindered by his nonfunctional vocalizer. He tried his best anyway, trying to pull away from Pharma as his frame seized again. He spent a few more moments trying to fight before the futility of it dawned on him. He vented, full of suppressed rage, but obeyed Pharma.

His EM field flicked with panic, then fury, before settling on an icy calm that hid a greater turmoil. Tarn tried to speak again and managed to spit out a little more static. His second try was slightly more successful.

“...where…?”

So his sweet moment would come. Pharma couldn’t wait. He removed his servos, as leisurely as he wanted to because he was the one who held the power now. 

“Aboard the Peaceful Destiny. Bound for Cybertron. Where you will no doubt be submitted to a trial detailing your lovely list of misdeeds.”

Pharma stepped away to inspect his tools, keeping his senses trained on Tarn as long as he even so much as looked away from him. That voice...it brought on memories, but memories couldn’t hurt, threaten or control him. Tarn’s power was gone.

 

_ He’d failed _ .

Tarn stared at Pharma but didn’t really see him, optics glassy. He’d… no. No. He was alive. Megatron was likely alive. He was at a disadvantage, but he could scrape together some way to escape and then… and then…

Overlord was gone. Deathsaurus was probably gone. Tarn was alone, with Pharma, surrounded by his enemies. The fact he even woke up now was a miracle in of itself.

He swallowed. “ _... _ Mega -- tron…?” It dug something in his craw to have to speak like this, to have to ask  _ Pharma  _ of all people questions. But he was weak, too weak. And Pharma could be played, even now, even like this.

Tarn levelled his gaze on him, bleary as it was. He still hurt all over and all his senses were  _ wrong _ but -- Pharma had lived with Tarn’s constant threat over his helm. Somewhere under all that, he still  _ remembered _ .

The medic turned back, striding with a sense of pride that didn’t quite befit his queasy spark. Tarn would remember. Tarn knew all of the games they had played. Hell, Tarn had made him play, like a puppet on strings.

But that didn’t mean he could do anything now.

“In the tender, loving care of his nemesis and his pet medic.”

A cruel smirk tugged at his lips.

“You failed to kill him. In fact, you failed rather spectacularly. They are still picking up pieces of your division from the Lost Light’s bridge.”

 

Tarn wanted to put his servo around Pharma’s smirking, smug little face and  _ squeeze _ . The urge made his field spike aggressively, before he slowly calmed again. Not yet. Tarn couldn’t even speak, much less punish Pharma. But  _ soon _ .

His voice was still out of his reach, though he could speak. It seemed channeling that power was still too stressful for his healing vocalizer. His team might be dead, or just nearly, but anger wouldn’t serve him here.

_ Nemesis.  _ That had to mean the Prime. Tarn had seen him back on the Necrobot planet, but Overlord’s arrival had distracted him. Why had the Prime chosen to save Megatron?

_ Why had he chosen to spare him at the trial,  _ asked a voice in the back of his helm. Tarn hissed, before resolving to ignore why anyone chose to be merciful.

“...why…?”

_ Why are you repairing me? Why are you choosing to fix someone who tortured you to the brink of insanity?  _ Pharma was not the merciful type. He was doing this for a reason, a reason that Tarn could reasonably dread.

 

“How refreshingly eloquent you are today.” Pharma was enjoying this, for now. He could see how this sort of exchange might grow tiresome, with Tarn unable to formulate any kind of appropriate reply outside of snarling and aggressively throwing his field around. It was almost too tame a version of their game for Pharma to enjoy. 

“Why were you spared? For some sort of political gesture, I expect. I rather doubt it was pity, although you are very pitiful right now.” Pharma took to cleaning an already shining scalpel, designed for precise dissection of delicate, interior mesh.

“Why are you being repaired? I expect so you’ll last until your trial. Why am I doing the repairs? Because no one else could possibly piece back together the molten, broken slag you were. Well. At least I can repair the outside. The same can't be said for your spark.”

_ Or that black hole of cruelty you call one. _

The medic met Tarn’s optics. So lacklustre, when they were not hidden behind an intimidating mask...

“Or for your faceplate.”

 

Tarn didn’t rise to the bait this time. He settled back, glowering. He dearly wanted to snap at Pharma and whittle his superior attitude into a stump of wounded pride. His weak frame stopped him.

He looked at the medical tools near him. That, and that fact that the medic was still repairing him. He wouldn’t put it past Pharma to sabotage something, or leave a permanent ache behind out of spite. His leashed his emotions and jerked his helm down.

“Then…  _ fix _ .”

There had to be a way for him to get out. Right after he ground Pharma’s face into the floor.

He eyed the medic distastefully.  _ And break his precious wings _ .

 

Said wings twitched with annoyance at the order.

 

“Have it your way. You always do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Pharma made a point of spending less and less time on Tarn, instead languidly repairing his unit instead. Tesarus and Helex were simple in their construction, with easy parts to be replaced since their torture-device-alt-modes were no longer required. Now they were just two large, useless mecha, laying on slabs all day and wasting Pharma’s talent. Vos’ reconstruction was far more finicky, requiring more of his skill than even Tarn had.

No one was scheduling Pharma’s time. No one came to check on his progress. The amount of trust placed in him was staggering, and Pharma would make utter, full use of that. He knew the DJD. He had feared them for years. He knew what they could do, given little. So he made sure to give them less. He cut fuel rations, delayed restoring cognitive functionality, disarmed them all entirely. And for Tarn, as a special treat, he removed the t-cog entirely.

But he’d done that before Tarn ever regained consciousness. Of course.

“I have good news.” Pharma sauntered into the cell, a drink in hand. He’d come to spend his spare time here, instead of socialising in the ship’s bar.

“Megatron has made a full recovery.”

 

After their brief conversation, Tarn found Pharma coming to him less and less. It was fine, at first, since he spent so much time offline as his systems repaired themselves. His waking hours were sluggish and empty, giving him nothing to do but stare at a wall when Pharma was out. When Pharma was in, his voice refused to cooperate and Tarn’s eloquence was reduced to a few whispered syllables drowned in static.

It was maddening. Tarn welcomed his unconsciousness then, just so he didn’t have time to think.

He healed. And as he healed, his offline periods grew shorter. That was how Tarn’s second dilemma came to his attention.

He couldn’t move. He had no one to talk to. He had no ship to command, no team to administrate. All his books and music were gone, and he couldn’t even listen to the speeches stored in his internal drive, they sickened him so much.

He was…  _ bored _ .

Tarn couldn’t do anything but lay there, feeling the numbing ache of boredom gnawing at the back of his processor, while his frame ached for another reason. It hurt, thanks to the antimatter deteriorating his body on a molecular scale. 

It also  _ hurt _ .

He felt hollow inside. Tarn tried to feel out where his internals were -- where his  _ T-cog _ was -- while he lay alone and with nothing to do, but his senses eluded him. It felt  _ empty _ . He couldn’t transform with his restraints in place and each minute he was awake was another minute his frame remembered how it felt to change shapes. The phantom feelings made his plating rattle in place, desperate to move.

So when Pharma, smug and powerful now that Tarn could only glare at him, waltzed in and declared Megatron to be in good health, Tarn couldn’t pay attention at all.

_ Pharma was  _ **_holding_ ** _ something _ .

Tarn tried to focus on the words, but his optics strayed to the drink. It wasn’t anything like his private collection, he tried to reason, but the staleness in his tanks reminded him that he couldn’t even  _ taste  _ what they gave him. Every part of Tarn begged for stimulation, and the sight of the fuel -- pink and glowing -- forced him to bite the inside of his cheek before he did something like  _ ask  _ for a taste.

The Autobots were masters of a softer warfare. Where they couldn’t act for fear of ruining their self-made image of goodness, they worked in the shadows. Where they couldn’t physically hurt him, they deprived him. Where they couldn’t leash him, they took from him.

He swallowed. His mouth felt parched and he felt another shudder pass over him as his frame tried to transform.

“...are you here to… gloat?” he asked, voice raspy from disuse. “... not exactly what a…  _ good  _ Autobot should be doing, hm?”

_ As if you were one to begin with. _

 

“And you would know all about what Autobots ought to be doing, wouldn’t you?” Pharma noticed the tracking of Tarn’s optics, the drink in his hands suddenly under focus as if it was somehow of critical importance, and not just a refreshing change from the fuel supplied to the inhabitants of the brig. Pharma had been one of them until a stroke of fortune demanded his medical services and freedom. Really, he ought to be grateful to Megatron for being soft-sparked enough not to kill Tarn.

“Tch. Gloating. I am not petty like that, Tarn. But you wouldn’t know that. You don’t know anything about me.”

Pharma took a seat next to Tarn’s restrained body, sipping the energon slowly, perhaps with some decadence.

“You should be grateful to me. Not that you know how. For all of your attempts at being a conversationalist of class, you were always still a fanatical brute. Though it is a shame about your collections.”

 

_ Socializing? _

“If your tastes are so  _ discerning _ ,” Tarn said as he forced his optics away from the drink to Pharma’s face, “Then why are…  _ you  _ here?”

There was a shipful of Autobots just waiting to be terrorized. Why hang around Tarn any longer than he had to?

Call him fanatical. Call him a brute. Tarn wasn’t  _ stupid _ .

“I’d say… I know more than  _ most _ .”  _ You’re not as innocent as you try to look. I just showed it to you. _

 

“As it happens to be Prime’s ship, everyone here is rather...strained as it were.” They didn’t trust Pharma. Apparently, everyone had a detailed record of what happened at Delphi and at some later point on Luna 2. But Pharma had no memory of working for Tyrest, and he certainly couldn’t be held accountable for something an alternate version of himself had done and, from what he understood, died for. Still, everyone on board treated him as if he was a ticking timebomb. Ratchet worst of all, but Pharma had expected nothing from him. He couldn’t believe there was a time where he thought the mech was his friend. Pharma had no friends. Only enemies waiting to turn on him, to send him to worse than the brig.

_ Paranoid? _ No. Cautious.

Tarn was the monster he knew. Tarn was also incapacitated and in the middle of experiencing his revenge.

“Besides. I thought I’d check in on my most lucid patient. I know you must be experiencing some discomfort, without a t-cog. Although you wouldn’t be allowed to transform regardless of whether you’re capable of it or not.” Pharma took another tiny sip, playing his servo over Tarn’s plating just because he could. Just because, he was in control here and Tarn had nothing left.

 

“They know you don’t belong.”

Tarn’s wasn’t mocking him, surprisingly. Well, maybe a  _ little _ . But they both knew it. Pharma didn’t belong,  _ couldn’t  _ belong after Delphi. Tarn hadn’t been there to appreciate the full results of his steady pressuring, but he could give a good guess at what happened.

Pharma had  _ snapped _ . He did something, and now the Autobots treated him with gloves on.

Tarn was about to speak up again, needle at Pharma’s factional issues, when the news about his T-cog stopped him short. He paused, frantically trying to feel where it was, trying to confirm that Pharma was just  _ lying _ .

_ Nothing. Gone. _

It explained the ache. The hollowness. Anger, bitter and fierce, coursed through Tarn as he snarled at Pharma.

“You took it  _ out _ ?!”

Immediately, his vocalizer hurt. But Tarn was too angry to notice the warning signs. “Return it,” he hissed, hackles raised, “ _ immediately _ .”

Inside, his engine sputtered, trying to work with the minimal fuel it had. But Tarn’s anger forced it beyond safety, and a harsh, guttural roar filled the small cell as Tarn strained against his binds. His arm moved, pushing against the clamps to wrap a servo around Pharma. He was close enough that if Tarn just  _ pushed _ …

“I don’t think anyone would  _ mind  _ if I  **killed** you.”

Pharma had moved from his slabside position the second Tarn’s rage filled the air with the hideous sound of an engine ripping itself apart. He may know that the mech was completely disarmed and restrained, but Pharma had become a survivalist since Delphi. Though his movement was nonchalant, his spark thundered underneath his plating.  _ Dangerous. Still dangerous _ . He had to kill that notion with facts. Tarn was defeated, he couldn’t use his terrifying vocal talent to do anything anymore....he was just an angry husk.

“As if I would replace your t-cog. You’d only wear it out in less than two weeks if you were allowed to transform.”

Kill him? Hah. Pharma had lived for months, fearing that every single time he had to deliver a new, higher t-cog quota. Living in fear of Tarn had become so normal, now it felt familiar, almost comfortable. Something that filled him with the strangest sense of belonging yet.

“It wasn’t so much a matter of taking it out as simply having no replacement. You’re the one who insisted on being disintegrated by antimatter.“

 

Without his mask, Tarn’s anger was etched on every inch of his face. He bared his dentae, the sharpened edges glinting in the low light. Tarn pushed forward as much as he could, resisting the clamps until he rose off the slab. His entire body was straining, only powered by his sudden rage.

It wasn’t all just Pharma’s removal of his cog. It was… everything, from before. It’d been simmering inside him, boiling under the thin veneer of control he barely kept in place while Pharma repaired him. Now it all crashed down on him, spurred on by the fact that he was powerless enough that Pharma could pull out whatever he wanted,  _ whenever  _ he wanted.

“Put it  _ back _ ,” he growled, “or the first T-cog I will go for when I get out will be  _ yours _ . I won’t do it  _ quickly _ , oh no. You’ll be awake. You’ll  _ feel  _ it. I’ll cut inches off you, piece by piece, until I have it. Anything you’ve ever felt before, any other pain, will pale in comparison. Put it back,  _ Pharma _ , because if you don’t, I will find a way. I always do.”

His engine stopped, petering out into soft growls. It hurt even more, now, but Tarn refused to back down.

“You act strong now. But I can see your fear in how you  _ run _ , even here. You are still scared and you  _ should  _ be.”

 

“Not. Of. You.” Pharma ground out, already two paces away from the slab. If by some miracle, Tarn made it off of it, he would be through the door and behind the barrier in less than three seconds. It wasn’t fear. It was caution. Or at least, that’s what he firmly told the cloying, frantic pulses of his spark. Tarn could not make good on his threat. Absolutely not. How could he chase Pharma, or bring him down for his horrendous promises of torture when he couldn’t transform, couldn’t use his voice, had no ship, no division, no fusion cannon?

But then, why did his servo tremble? Pharma forced himself into absolute stillness, wings flittering back, vents sucking in air and turbine whining quietly, as if readying him for a rapid departure.

He wasn’t scared. He shouldn’t be. The ingrained fear told him otherwise, but Pharma was set to conquer it. It was why he repaired Tarn first. Confrontational therapy, right?

_ Oh, so very wrong. _

“You won’t get out. You can’t. You can threaten me all you want, but your life is in my servos. Do you think anyone would mind if I killed you? Severed your brain module from your helm? Or your helm from your body? I could keep you as a wall ornament. You could watch me live my entire life, completely powerless to ever lay a servo on me  _ again _ .”

Pharma bristled with a sense of pride. That’s right. He was the one in charge of Tarn’s fate. He’d eased patients into the Allspark before. He could certainly do it again. He was so very  _ good _ at it, thanks to Tarn.

 

“And  _ yet _ , you haven’t. You could have when they first told you to repair me. Threats are only threatening when you  _ mean  _ it, Pharma.”

Tarn knew where to look for the signs of fear. He’d faced many kinds of traitors, not all of them snivelling. They’d try to act big and brave, defy Tarn’s will… but their shaking frame betrayed their terror. Pharma’s words disguised themselves as acts of courage, but Tarn could practically taste the fear that rolled off him.

“Besides, you would have to come closer to do that. How can you cut out anything, when you’re so ready to run out that door, hm?”

 

Pharma flinched and cursed himself for it a moment later. Tarn was horrendously perceptive, and he was definitely too close to the door to appear unafraid. Bracing himself, he stalked closer again, though he kept out of Tarn’s reach, prowling around him like a very insecure scavenger would a dying predator.

“Do not mistake my caution for fear Tarn. You cannot force me into doing your bidding anymore. It’s over. You lost. The sooner you accept that, the sooner I might make you whole again.”

He did have a replacement t-cog on hand, after all. The Prime had no idea about Tarn’s addiction and had provided one, but Pharma wisely had placed it on the wayside. 

The medic stopped at the controls for the clamps on Tarn, turning their setting higher than before. This was supposed to be capable of restraining a mech like Tarn at full strength, so this shouldn’t be a problem, right?

“I’m not bound to you anymore,” Pharma whispered as he turned it up to max, fascinated to see the heavy frame buckle into obedience.

 

The sharp sound of metal hitting metal echoed through the cell. Tarn fell back down with a grunt and this time, no amount of straining pushed him back up. It seemed he was still too weak to tear through these clamps, for now.

His claws drew long grooves in the slab as he turned his helm to watch Pharma. Thin strips of metal peeled around the deepening lines.

“I don’t care about being whole. I want my T-cog and I want Megatron dead.  _ Wholeness  _ factors into none of that.”

His engine ached more. Tarn had been too hard on his body, it seemed, and now it was making its displeasure clearly known. He was still to weak, still too fragile to do anything.

He smiled at Pharma, though it didn’t reach his optics. It was sharp smile that held dark promises.

“You can’t get rid of me, Pharma. You can talk it. You can even try and kill me. But I’ll always be there, around every dark corner and every time you turn your back. You lie to yourself about it but --”

He huffed a harsh, humorless laugh.

“You still came when you realized I was here, didn’t you?”

 

“I had no choice!” Pharma snarled, not even comprehending Tarn’s easy handling of him. There was no need to lie, to restrain anything. Tarn knew his deepest, darkest side. Tarn knew it intimately well, the cruel bastard. Pharma didn’t have to pretend to be as put together because Tarn had personally seen to the destruction of any semblance of sanity still clinging to the medic.

“I’m a medic. When someone asks me if I can repair someone, I don’t ask who it is.” Besides, his own future in the new society of Cybertron depended on the trust afforded to him by the Prime. If he showed his best behaviour, there might never be a trial, no psychological evaluation, no mnemosurgeon to prove the state of his claimed memories. Delphi was a dark, dark secret and Pharma would take it to his grave by any means necessary.

“My reputation was on the line. That’s all.”

 

“You can’t be the  _ only  _ medic on-board. If Prime is here, then his  _ friend  _ \-- Ratchet -- must be as well. Why hasn’t he fixed me, then? Perhaps he refused. Or perhaps you took the opportunity.”

Tarn ruthlessly shredded each part of Pharma’s excuses apart like so much foil. “You threaten to  _ kill  _ me, yet you say you had no choice in saving me. You say your reputation as a medic is on the line but… well, we know what happened to  _ that _ .”

Pharma was an old game, a game Tarn knew well. It was comforting to strip away his flimsy little lies, and expose that ugly little side Pharma tried to pretend didn’t exist. Tarn was the one on the berth, disarmed and restrained, but he still held the power.

“Go on then, Pharma. Tell your Prime you did your job. Go mingle with the other Autobots. You did what you came here to do, didn’t you? Why are you still here? The job’s  _ done _ , my dear doctor.”


	3. Chapter 3

Pharma wished he had the fortitude to just slice open Tarn’s helm and remove his brain module. Maybe crush it under the door and watch the pieces disappear into the garbage disposal. That’s what he should be doing. The violent urge for murder was straining against his medical protocols, but he’d learned to deal with that conundrum a long time ago. Tarn was right. The job was done. But Pharma knew he didn’t belong with the other Autobots. With those hapless idiots that abandoned him, his facility, his whole damn outpost. These slagging bastards who did nothing but wait on the Prime’s divine inspirations, which lead to Megatron, MEGATRON, walking free when Pharma faced permanent imprisonment. His former ‘faction’ had gone nothing short of mad and Pharma missed the icy cold of Messatine. 

Why was he still here?

“The job’s never done. I wager you’ve just given me an additional three hours of work, listening to your engine.”

Pharma braved coming closer, holding his drink out over Tarn’s helm before turning the glass to watch the pink liquid spill all over the unmasked, scarred visage. He found a carnal sort of pleasure in being able to do whatever he liked to Tarn’s haunting face.

 

Tarn almost sputtered when the energons spilled on him. Almost. He kept it in check, though his optics blazed a little brighter in indignation. He noticed Pharma’s careful evasion of his questions, but chose to let it be.

Idly, his glossa touched the fuel on his lips. It wasn’t his triple distilled inner energon. It wasn’t even high grade.

It tasted  _ divine _ .

“What a waste,” he finally said. “You could’ve just given it to me.”

A victory was a victory. Let Pharma keep his petty indulgences. If he wanted to play with Tarn’s frame… well, Tarn could call it a consequence of Delphi.

“I still want my T-cog back, Pharma. It’d be best if you return it.”

 

“Oh, would it be best, Tarn?” Pharma’s voice was indignant with mockery as he walked back to his tiny medical station. It was mobile and came from Pulse’s medbay and Pharma despised its limitations, but he had to make do. With a few presses here and there, he opened a small container, which he brought over to Tarn’s slab. 

“You want your t-cog?”

Pharma held up the small, golden orb for Tarn to see. It was in splendid condition, and far too precious to be wasted on an addict like Tarn. He leaned on the tankformer’s frame, now that it was restrained once more. Almost lounging on top of Tarn certainly helped erode that paralyzing fear from earlier, when the monster had moved.

“You want me to open you up and put this in, right now? That’s too bad Tarn. You have nothing to persuade me with. You won’t ever be free again. I know that, because I am, and I know how much you will be made an example of.”

Better to steer the conversation back to something Pharma was absolutely certain of. Tarn’s public trial and execution.

 

“I can drag you down with me,” Tarn said smugly, “I imagine they would be interested to hear about Delphi. About you. What I did. Each little slip down your moral slope, each little concession… do you think they would be content with only the details of our deal? Or do you suppose they would want to know  _ all  _ of our little secrets?”

He glanced down at Pharma, amused. “Isn’t this a little  _ inappropriate  _ of you, doctor? Imagine if there were cameras. Imagine if someone  _ knew _ .”

 

“Yes, imagine that,” this conversation, Pharma had prepared for. He thought about it happening when Tarn was still grey and motionless. 

“I wonder whose words will carry more weight, Tarn? You, a convicted, infamous murdering psychopath, or mine? After having gained the Prime’s trust to work on you and your division, unsupervised might I add, I rather doubt they’ll believe I willingly participated in  _ any  _ of your games.”

Pharma petted Tarn’s massive chestplate, content to rest on his frame still. No one ever came down here to check on the state of these prisoners. They had been abandoned to Pharma’s care.

 

“There are mnemosurgeons to confirm. Other people to testify. Maybe you might slip away, somehow. You’re still damned. They let you fix me, because you’re expendable. They don’t trust you. It won’t take much to make sure they  _ never  _ will.”

He eyed the T-cog. It was pristine, glowing teasingly at him. Tarn wanted to fill the hole in his side, wanted to transform again. He  _ needed  _ to. Without Pharma to mock, then he would be left alone with his addiction. He was getting desperate.

“My silence, for the T-cog.”

 

“Hm. I don’t know if that is a deal I can accept on good faith, Tarn,” Pharma traced a servo over where he’d have to cut Tarn open again to give him what he craved so deeply. It wasn’t as if the restraints would allow for transformation. The best Tarn would get out of it was a rattled, whining bunch of limbs.

But addiction didn’t demand reason, it demanded satisfaction.

“You have been liberal about promises to kill me since you’ve woken up. That’s hurtful. Your impending, doomed future aside, I’d prefer if you could sweeten the deal for my labour.”

 

“You took my T-cog away. Of course I would tell you I would kill you. Don’t be deluded enough to think I would hesitate to end you.”

The insult came out easily. Tarn didn’t even have to try to attack Pharma -- it was natural as transforming. Still, he was getting somewhere. Pharma didn’t play coy like this unless he was about to be persuaded.

“We can restart the deal again. With different conditions, of course, since the situation’s different. But you know the perks involved. Satisfaction for satisfaction, yes?”

 

“What manner of satisfaction could you possibly afford me in your position?” Pharma knew he would agree to this ‘deal’. He had to. Factoring in Tarn’s silence on the Delphi matter was essential to his continued freedom, even once the Peaceful Destiny returned to Cybertron. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t barter.

“I have no other patients. Supplying you with numerous t-cogs is physically impossible.”

 

“I can be sparing in my use. One or two extras -- they’re bound to be around, somewhere. You’re resourceful enough to figure it out, I’m sure. Tell me what happened to my division.”

 

“Pretty much the same as to you,” Pharma picked up a marker, drawing on the area he’d be cutting with a laser if he did intend to replace the cog. Dampener wouldn’t be necessary.  Tarn had endured worse pains without any numbing agent before.

“Severe damage done by the antimatter explosion. The two big ones made it, the small one is just out of critical condition. As for your ship and whoever else you brought? They disappeared when you exploded, or so I heard.”

Pharma paused, tapping on Tarn’s chestplate.

“I could give your  _ their _ t-cogs. None of them are conscious yet anyway.”

 

“Not -- no. Let them keep it, unless there is no other way. Until then, keep searching.” Tarn wouldn’t lie to himself and say that he hadn’t been tempted, once or twice, during a particularly dry spell. But he had to keep  _ some  _ kind of boundary on it. Using his division as emergency T-cogs was something he kept at the very back of his processor. There wasn’t a shortage of T-cogs to take, so it didn’t matter.

Until now.

The survival of his team was good news, at least. Their injuries didn’t surprise him, but they were alive and Pharma had fixed them enough that they would stay that way. Now, Tarn only needed to figure out how to ensure they would all walk away from this.

“I want to be able to transform, as well.”

 

“No, see, that’s impossible. I cannot undo your restraints without alerting the entire ship. Nor would I do so, in the interest of my own health,” Pharma raised the scalpel, finally having deposited the t-cog to the side so he could go to work.

“Unbinding you is certain to end poorly for me, whichever way you dress it up. The only time it wouldn’t bring the entire security team down on my head was if you were heavily sedated and unconscious.”

 

“I wouldn’t kill you, or injure you  _ now _ ,” Tarn said impatiently, “I need you whole and healthy this entire trip. Try to see past the next day, Pharma, really. Setting me free, within this cell, so I can transform is entirely in your abilities. You could trick the system, tell them you need to move me for another surgery.”

Tarn paused, considering.  _ What’s the point of a T-cog if you can’t transform? _

“I’m willing to bargain on this,” he said.

 

“Oh you are?” Pharma knew Tarn’s addiction was something even beyond the tankformer’s control. It could be the pivotal part in turning this unpleasant relationship into something useful. 

The first incision was delicate and slow. Pharma did enjoy cutting up thick plating, especially when it was Tarn’s. He’d welded the hatch shut before, in arguably reasonable anger. 

“I’m listening, Tarn.”

 

“You know what I want. I’ve yet to hear what you want. Tell me, and we can work something out.”

The pain of the surgery was a familiar one. Tarn was pleased and a soft rumble came from deep inside his chest as the first cut went through. It felt good. It was probably an associated pleasure, from how this surgery always led to a fresh T-cog but…

This kind of pain was one he could enjoy.

 

“Well,” Pharma made slow incisions. Precise, but unnecessarily slow. The rumble coming from Tarn’s massive chassis sent warm pings all over his sensory networks. He violently shoved away the implications of such satisfaction at the mere thought of pleasing Tarn.

“You don’t have much, but you can be,” Pharma paused as he had to lift up a massive square slice of plating, gently resting it on Tarn’s chest so he could continue cutting into him, “good company. In a certain sense. I despise the companionship of this crew and their wretched Prime. I need a good distraction.”

 

“They must be especially terrible if you prefer me over them.” Tarn offlined his optics, letting himself sink into the way the scalpel bit and pulled at the softer metal of his protoform. “Won’t they be curious if you keep rebuking their attempts to interact with you?”

He hissed when the scalpel cut somewhere sensitive. He couldn’t arch his back thanks to the berth’s restraints, but the low rumble turned into a growl.

It wasn’t, he admitted to himself privately, entirely because it hurt.

 

“You’ll be surprised to know that no such attempts have been made,” Pharma disregarded his patient’s pain, knowing that he’d have to cut into a few sensitive areas to unearth the empty cradle. Tarn’s t-cog ‘zone’ was a disaster and even spare parts could not maintain it cleanly. There was always a little melted cog, clinging to the energon lines and circuitry that fed into here. Really, Tarn needed an entire transplant, not just a cog, but future medical concerns weren’t really part of Pharma’s deal then, or now.

“Although my every attempt at convincing them that I was never on Luna 2 and sawed Ambulon in half as well as decapitating Ratchet seems to be heard, I do believe they don’t trust me. Sad, really, considering I am not the mech that died on that moon.”

 

Oh? That was new. “Alternates,” he said with a bitter noise. “Did you know I  _ killed  _ everyone on the  _ Lost Light _ ? Then they show up, again. The  _ Peaceful Tyranny  _ probably still has Overlord’s helm on it somewhere.”

Not that he knew where his ship even was anymore. “How did you get here, then?”

 

“Time travel. Or so I was told. Not that anyone bothered to explain why this Necrobot figure would pull me out of...what I was doing.” Pharma had no interest in understanding his alternate’s fate. Something about Tyrest and First Aid shooting him in the head. It didn’t matter. Pharma was here now and he would be careful not to inspire murderous former subordinates, again. He’d been avoiding First Aid with every ounce of his existence. 

“Did you ever have plans to kill me, Tarn? Just whilst we’re on the topic of fated demises. I did devise a disease, just for you. Something that would kill you if you transform. Red Rust, I called it. A poetically tragic death, don’t you agree?”

Pharma opened the last layer to the cradle and rested a moment, depositing the scalpel to the side as he cleaned out the debris of Tarn’s last cog manually.

 

“You made a disease just to kill me?” Tarn was reluctantly impressed. That wasn’t something people did just as a  _ hobby _ . That was… “Impressive work, doctor.”

Well, it was admirable. It failed, but it wasn’t because of anything Pharma could control.

“I always imagined I would eventually kill you, sometime. I wasn’t sure when or how, but that I would. It might be a short death. It might have been a prolonged one. Maybe I won’t kill you. I haven’t decided.”

Pharma  _ was  _ rather useful, after all, and Nickel was gone. A medic was necessary.

 

“How comforting,” Pharma grew silent as he took the cog in hand. Attaching it would take a while but for now, he imagined Tarn must be waiting to feel the full weight of it inside of him. Surgery without dampeners was a thrill and Pharma would definitely count it among his plentiful guilty pleasures. His fingers scraped over the cradle, allowing it to take on the plump little orb. It reacted, twitched under the new presence. Oh, Tarn was always so responsive. Pharma stroked along the thinnest of energon lines, transforming his servos in order to pinch and extend the line all the way to the cog it needed to be feeding. 

The medic was buried halfway in Tarn’s innards. And this was how he preferred to spend their time together.

“It is remarkable that your cradle still has this much regenerative quality to it. After the amount of times you’ve burned it out.”

 

Tarn vented out as he felt Pharma begin to install the T-cog. This feeling would never get old, he mused dimly. At first, the T-cog connecting. Then the lines stretching to accommodate it, as he felt something inside him grow  _ whole  _ again. Tarn sighed, shifting a little as he wallowed in the pleasure.

“Warframe,” he said in way of explanation, “I  _ should  _ be able to regenerate this quickly, or I wouldn’t be much use…  _ mmmm _ .”

There was really no other word for it. Tarn  _ purred _ .

_ I missed this. _

An entirely unprofessional heat stretched through Pharma as Tarn purred under his servos. A part of him missed this too. The satisfaction he gained from pleasing Tarn...definitely a result of his Delphi ordeal. Still, he continued to work, not letting it affect him further than a pleased ripple through his field. He was still the best surgeon Cybertron ever produced. He’d like to see Ratchet’s fat servos do this kind of delicate work without a dampener!

“I suppose there have to be some benefits to having such a brutish frame,” he muttered, performing small miracles in his surgical attachment of the lines. 

__

“Like you don’t enjoy it,” Tarn teased, his mood lightening as he felt each link to his T-cog connect. Each one drew a smaller purr from him as his entire frame felt  _ right  _ again. Oh, he still had damages to deal with and the pesky issue of his impending trial was present.

But here and now, Tarn enjoyed himself.  _ It’s only a little indulgence _ , he assured himself.

“Hm. You would like to think that, wouldn’t you?” Pharma was an expert at this procedure, and it didn’t take him long at all to complete. Replacing each layer of plating would take a little longer, since he had to take care not to damage anything beneath each surface. Even with the rudimentary tools at his disposal here, Pharma did exemplary work. 

Not that Tarn could enjoy the fruits of his labour once the good doctor was finished though, since the restraints remained as tight as before. Pharma wiped energon and soot off of his servos, straightening his back as surveyed his work.

“The benefits of working without dampeners is immediate gratification. Really, I should write a paper on you. Someone may find it fascinating.”

__

“ _ You  _ find it fascinating.”

Tarn tried to stretch, but found himself still constricted. He scowled. “Loosen the berth settings, will you? I’m hardly going to kill you now that I have my T-cog again.”

He wanted to move a little, stretch kinked cables properly. The welding felt tight and Tarn knew from experience that a few twists would make it comfortable. “In fact, can’t you just… loosen me? You’ve overcome greater challenges than mere security settings for something that  _ wants  _ to be a prison.”

__

Pharma knew he shouldn’t. Every rational thought in his mind told him that it was a bad idea. But his pride, it demanded satisfaction. Hadn’t Tarn promised exactly that? His wings quivered in anticipation of his decision. Pharma knew he did masterful work, and if Tarn was capable of transformation already so shortly after surgery, it only proved him right.

The medic wandered over to the control panel. He locked the door, then commed the security team that he’d be lifting restraints on a sedated prisoner. That should keep them away for now. If Pharma failed to restrain Tarn within a reasonable time-frame, say, if he was incapacitated or killed, at least Tarn would never get out. 

It was worth the risk.

“Try not to overdo it. That cog is delicate.”

Pharma flicked the switch that might just spell out his doom. The clamps beeped, then released.

__

He felt the restraints move off him more than he saw it. Tarn didn’t get up immediately. He lay there, slowly stretching his entire frame with a luxurious groan. His back arched, arms and legs outstretched as he felt all the stiffness melt away. The he relaxed, all his tension escaping him.

Slowly, he rose, swinging his pedes over to rest on the floor. Pharma was near the door, watching him. Tarn knew what he must be thinking?  _ Did I make a mistake? Will he kill me? Maybe I should call security in. _

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said again, just to make sure Pharma got the message, “Stop fretting.”

He stood up experimentally. His frame creaked under the weight but everything felt  _ right _ .

He transformed. Slowly and fully, making sure each piece slid exactly into the right place before a tank, broad and brimming with danger, rested where he was. He rolled forward a little, testing how much space his cell afforded him, and stopped before his gun touched the wall. Then he was back in rootmode, closer to Pharma than before.

“Good work,” he said, pleased.

__

“Of course,” Pharma almost didn’t remember how huge Tarn was when he stood. Well, until now, when the mech towered over him, doubling him in width. Or at least, that’s how it felt. His spark thrummed, remembering only too well what if felt like to cower before Tarn, to kneel to him and pledge himself to a deal that would lead to his downfall.

And yet, these memories filled him only with a sick sense of yearning. He’d known how to play their game on Delphi. Despite being Tarn’s puppet, he knew he held his value. The hatred he felt, permeating every memory of every moment spent in each other’s presence felt like acidic balm.

“And now get back on the slab.”

__

Tarn frowned. “Already?” He only just got up, only just moved. Surely Pharma could give him even a few more minutes like this.

“Be reasonable. I haven’t been able to move for so long. You’re in no danger, Pharma.”

Not at the moment, anyway. Tarn gazed at the smaller mech, silently watching to see what he would do. There were multiple ways this could end. Some of them were even  _ good _ .

__

“Am I not?” Pharma didn’t want to give Tarn the benefit of the doubt. He was a looming presence, and it curdled Pharma’s senses to be straining for something more than apprehensive observation. His turbine whined. Why was this exciting, when it should be terrifying?

He had the power. He had to remember that. Tarn had nothing but his brutish frame. His brutish frame that he knew how to handle oh so well, when he wanted to. Looking into Tarn’s faceplate instead of a mask was unsettling too. With the life back in his optics, he looked...ruggedly attractive. For a hideous murderer. 

Pharma swallowed down the heavy reminder of how  _ alone _ he’d been since arriving on the Peaceful Destiny.

“I suppose another five minutes can’t...hurt.”

__

A disarming grin appeared on Tarn’s face. Pharma could be so predictable sometimes. It wasn’t as if Tarn hadn’t noticed how he sometimes grew distracted by his face, so he allowed more expression than normal, just so Pharma would be off balance more.

“Surely not,” he agreed amiably, taking a few steps closer to the doctor. Nothing too aggressive; that would scare him off. But little by little, taking a mile for every inch Pharma could concede. “Come now, Pharma, come a little closer. It’s been so long since we saw each other. After everything, don’t you think we should catch up?”

It was meaningless, empty small talk. But each word was another way to push a little deeper under Pharma’s plating until he was raw and open for Tarn once again.

He tilted his helm. “I  _ did  _ enjoy our games, my dear doctor.”

__

Tarn neared him like an event horizon. Inescapable, unstoppable. Pharma couldn’t back up, there was nothing behind him but the door and the energy barrier beyond it. Why had he thought it a good idea to loosen the restraints again?

Those optics...the blazing life in them was entirely mesmerizing. As if Tarn wasn’t headed for certain death. It was admirable as much as it made his protoform crawl with anticipation. The mask...he almost missed it. Without it, Tarn was far more dangerous. That grin, it should have made Pharma run. Instead, he felt drawn in. There was no escaping Tarn. He’d said it himself. He’d always be haunting Pharma, alive or dead, he had woven his repulsive self into Pharma’s life.

“At least one of us did.”

A lie. Another. Pharma didn’t know when he’d last bothered to speak truthfully. It didn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things. He’d always be tangled in Tarn’s web.

__

“ _ Only  _ one of us?” Tarn stepped a little closer, until their EM fields met. He reached out slowly, and put one heavy servo on the side of Pharma’s face. “Pharma, I think we’re beyond such lies by now. Admit the truth.”

He reeled Pharma in, pulling him close enough to put his other servo on a wing. Tarn idly traced the hooked edge, his grin now a small, triumphant smile. “Tell the truth. Did you enjoy it?”

__

It was the same foolishness that allowed Tarn to trap Pharma in the first place, over and over again. Pharma knew Tarn wasn’t the only one with an addiction, but he would never concede defeat and admit to his own. At least, not to anyone but the two involved in his affliction.

He met Tarn’s gaze and withered under it. Still dangerous. Stripped of everything but his spark, he was still dangerous.

And yet...Pharma felt his frame respond to the touch, the field, the proximity. Part of his yearned for this so deeply, it made the rest of him sick with self-loathing.

“...Some of it.” he whispered, suddenly ravenous for more of Tarn’s unbidden touches. He’d been...alone. For a long, long time. Since before he ever came to Delphi. And here, on this ship, it was no different. He may as well still have been on that icy hellhole. No one would come at him the way Tarn did. No one would dare, fearing he’d snap. Tarn did not care. Tarn  _ made _ him this way.

__

“ _ Some of it _ ,” Tarn repeated, almost mocking if it weren’t for the gentle tone. It was false, but Pharma ate it all up anyway. “I think I can take a guess at  _ which parts  _ you refer to.”

He pulled Pharma away from the door, inserting himself between him and it. Tarn stroked patterns he knew all too well, running digits over his wings and helm in a nearly affectionate way. A claw ran down the slats of Pharma’s vent in a progression of soft  _ tink _ ’s, before he traced his collar faring.

“Like I said, we can have the perks again,” Tarn murmured, bending down to reach Pharma’s audial. “It can be our little secret, like old times.”

__

It shouldn’t entice him the way it did. Pharma knew better. Some part of his brilliant processor shut down though, with the familiar touch and the duality of fear and desire pulsing through his spark at the mere proximity of Tarn. No special vocal modulation was needed to draw this from the medic. Caution thrown to the wind, Pharma focused on his selfish desires. Tarn would fulfill a fair few of them, and really, why shouldn’t he take advantage of the trust he’d been afforded? Tarn would be executed on Cybertron. Pharma may as well enjoy him whilst he could.

“That suits me just fine.”

He turned his helm, Tarn still close to his face, and met the full wattage of that burning gaze. Pharma’s spark shook hard as he leaned closer, demanding what was rightfully his as per arrangement. It was a first to kiss Tarn on the mouth though, since that infernal mask had blocked any such attempts before.

Tarn bit him. Really, what did Pharma expect? There was still a dynamic here, and it wouldn’t do to let him think he had any sway of anything. Still, the bite wasn’t as hard as it could have been, and Tarn eased up before his sharp dentae could pierce through anything.

Tarn snaked an arm around Pharma’s waist, and picked him up so he no longer had to bend over to reach Pharma’s level. Returning the kiss was simple, though Tarn chose to wait before advancing it. He wouldn’t  _ mind  _ going beyond just touching each other, but there were some practical concerns to this.

“Security,” he said against Pharma’s mouth. Tarn bit his bottom lip again, before hefting him up higher so he could reach Pharma’s neck. “You’ll have to… delay them a little more.” Light kisses on neck cables turned to hard sucks and bites, Tarn only careful enough to not leave punctures. Marks on the other hand…

Pharma could handle it.


	4. Chapter 4

Tarn had hefted him high enough for Pharma to hold onto his shoulder treads, feeling like a toy in the tankformer’s grasp. A well-liked one at that, with Tarn busying himself on his neck. Pharma hummed with pleasure. There was always a tiny stutter, a step, or maybe a cliff that the medic threw himself over in order to enjoy what Tarn had to offer. Today, he’d sailed over it the moment he stepped into the cell.

Security. Right. The mecha would and could come down here to inspect why Tarn still wasn’t restrained. Pharma commed them again, even though no one answered, informing them that he’d be testing out Tarn’s reattached limbs and there was no need for alarm. A flimsy excuse, but anyone short of Ratchet wouldn’t scrutinise the message at all.

“I...notified...they shouldn’t...bother.”

The heat rising through him was scandalous and it poured off of the good doctor in waves of unmistakable desire.

 

“And if they do?” Tarn pushed Pharma up against the wall, “Maybe we should  _ stop _ , just in case.”

It  _ was  _ a little cruel to tease him like this. He deserved it, however, for taking Tarn’s T-cog out. His revenge wouldn’t even hurt.

Contrary to his words, his servos were busily exploring Pharma’s frame. Tarn stroked the exposed metal at Pharma’s sides, before pushing the tips of his claws into seams. He was still busy worrying at Pharma’s neck, exploring the many twists of the cables there with meticulous attention. Pharma was growing hotter, he noted with satisfaction. Perhaps there would be time to see if he could make him switch his turbine on.

 

“No!” it escaped him before he could temper the intensity of his voice and Pharma cursed Tarn to all manner of hellish and brutal deaths for doing this to him so easily. Already, his protocols pinged for activation. Not yet. Definitely not yet. 

“I mean...they are probably attending that stupid event in the bar. They won’t be patrolling...” There was no risk of being discovered without ample warning. The brig holding the DJD was separate from the mutineers, whom, unlike the broken mess of Decepticons, were frequently visited. No one had any questions for a bunch of near-offline, broken frames and their deranged caretaker.

“Don’t stop...” Pharma tried to move into the touches, even if the claws in sensitive seams were painful at times. He wanted, needed Tarn to continue. 

 

Playing disinterest was fun for only so long. Tarn himself wasn’t immune to this and Pharma  _ was  _ a beautiful mech, by all means. He looked lovely like this -- all his pretensions gone, trying to maintain control when they both knew it was already too late for things like  _ control _ .

Tarn put his knee under Pharma, bracing them, while one of his servos left the seams to gather both of Pharma’s wrists up and put them up against the wall. Tarn ventured up from Pharma’s neck again to kiss him, more hunger than anything else in it. It demanded Pharma give himself up just a little more.

“Open up,” he demanded, pulling Pharma’s higher for emphasis. “No more waiting.”

 

Whatever regret Pharma might develop later on had gone far out of reach for his processor. Pharma only felt the need, the hunger for this to fulfill him. For Tarn to fill him. It was depraved, and sick, and exactly what he wanted. Tarn’s order had him open up without a moment’s hesitation, as if he’d spent the last months waiting for this damn mech to return to his life. It was ridiculous and pathetic and he knew he couldn’t do a thing to stop himself from complying.

His interface panel had not seen the light of day in quite some time, but it remembered how to respond to Tarn’s demands, contracting tightly with anticipation, thick fluid seeping from his very heated valve. 

A wanton little piece of shareware. That’s what he must look like. Pharma would feel the shame later, after enjoying what perks a deal with Tarn afforded him.

 

Tarn’s spike was already out and he didn’t bother waiting any longer. There was a time and place for things like foreplay, and now wasn’t it. He held Pharma in place and thrust in without waiting to see if he was ready. The familiar tightness was enough to make Tarn groan, shuddering. He pressed a kiss that was more dentae than anything to Pharma’s mouth again, ready to swallow up any errant sounds. Besides the occasional clang of metal, the noises were minimal.

Accidents could ruin everything, so Tarn tried to be careful.

He still couldn’t contain the wild edge in his thrusts. That was a culmination of the long wait and everything that’d lead up to this moment -- emotions soaring through both of them as Tarn vented all his frustrations, anger, and grief into this one event. He wasn’t nearly as gentle with Pharma as he should be, really, and each thrust threatened to leave a vicious series of dents along Pharma’s inner thighs.

 

Pharma would deal with the pain later. Yes, it was present, disturbing what pleasure he could siphon out of Tarn’s wild movements, but it also served an edge to this that felt right. This was not some twisted love affair. It was primal, carnal satisfaction that they both craved, nothing more and nothing less. Pharma could only hold onto Tarn’s shoulder treads, cling to his neck to keep himself steady, his moans stolen by Tarn’s mouth on his. The heavy, repetitive sounds went unheard, the brig deadly silent beyond the cell. 

It would always come to this, wouldn’t it. Between them. An inevitable outcome and truth of Pharma’s entire existence. And he loved it, as much as he would hate it when they were finished. Riding Tarn was nearly impossible, the tankformer dictating every thrust as if it was a command given. The best Pharma could do was grip at his spike as best he could, adjusting the angle so it would at least bump his nodes now and then. 

The heat spiralling through him was a tight coil, and yes, it snapped his turbine online and his vents flared wide open.

 

He finally eased up after a particularly brutal thrust, slowing his punishing pace to a more even one as Tarn adjusted them. He grabbed Pharma under the knees, pushing them apart so there was more space for Tarn. He stopped just at the point he knew Pharma found too painful, before moving once more.

There was still some residual anger in him. Anger that likely would never leave. But now, Tarn took more care, holding to a rhythm. Pharma’s servos on his spike were good, but unnecessary, as Tarn met Pharma’s gaze. There was no apology in him for the previously brutal treatment, but he still eased up before Pharma was overwhelmed.

The roar of vents filled the room, along with Tarn’s growling engine. This was a mistake they’d both heartily committed to, and Tarn’s next kiss, between Pharma’s optics, could almost be mistaken for tender. 

 

Pharma didn’t know what to make of the sudden change of pace, except relinquish Tarn’s spike to go at his new rhythm, which was infinitely more pleasant than before. Pharma’s clenched valve opened a fraction wider, which sank him deeper onto that thick spike. The medic moaned, clinging instead of clenching now. Tarn had the capacity to bring him to overload, whether or not he would extend that courtesy remained uncertain. Pharma wanted this. He wanted Tarn to just frag all thoughts and concerns from his mind, at least for a couple of minutes, someone was close and it was Tarn. For a fraction of a second, Pharma could even pretend that this could be their norm. It must be nice, expecting this without the ploys, the games...Pharma wasn’t envious of those with lovers. They were weaknesses, so easily exploited it was ridiculous, and he didn’t need anyone beside himself, but still, he wondered sometimes what good it would to to share a sparkbond.

Well. It wouldn’t do any good with a monster like this, but at least Tarn could frag him thoroughly enough to stop thinking such unnecessary thoughts.

“Tarn...” he purred, vents cycling air loudly, optics lazily dimmed the nearer he got to overload. 

 

If anyone ever asked why he bothered to make this arrangement enjoyable for Pharma, the practical, reasonable answer would that it’s easier to attract flies with honey than vinegar. The less practical reasoning was that Tarn wasn’t the kind of person to fall into berth with any random hole. There was no point in it interfacing if there wasn’t mutual enjoyment, so…

So when he realized Pharma was getting close, Tarn only purred and encouraged him. He still wasn’t close, but plying Pharma was easier after the first one.

His thrusts were deep, pushing into Pharma until their hips and his legs splayed obscenely, and lining dragged on each ridge of Tarn’s spike, slow and soft enough to send lightning up his spinal strut. The first pace was good for pushing out all of Tarn’s thoughts and concerns into one emotional rush of pain. This one was for the simple pleasure of being in Pharma, their walls falling enough to let them have something intimate.

It wouldn’t last, of course.

That for later, however. Neither of them knew how long this would last, how much they could get in, so Tarn let go of one knee and picked up a blue hand instead, pressing the tips of its fingers to his mouth.

 

If the slow pace wasn’t enough for Pharma, Tarn remembering what any attention to his servos did to him certainly was. He held on only moments longer, fingers in the jaws of the beast without fear. This...like this, he didn’t fear Tarn. Despite his brutish nature, the horrific particulars of his (former) occupation, the tankformer had always been an attentive partner, to Pharma’s immeasurable surprise. Perhaps it was part of the sweet, poisonous addiction Pharma had developed for Tarn, this tender pretense.

His overload washed over him much like a tidal wave, it had been a long while for him too. His free arm clung to Tarn, his faceplate buried into the tankformer’s shoulder, deep moan lost to the depths of Tarn’s tracks.

Tarn stopped thrusting when he felt Pharma clench around him, shuddering when he felt the overload course through Pharma’s EM field and mix into his own. He shuddered a bit, before resuming.

He kissed the tips of the fingers at first, before dragging his dentae over the knuckles lightly. Each finger was kissed softly before Tarn licked a wet stripe down them. He kissed his palm, holding it all still with a firm grip around his wrist. He couldn’t see Pharma’s face with the way it was buried into his shoulder, but he could still feel his reactions.

Tarn slid his index finger into his mouth experimentally -- not all of it it, of course, only up to the first knuckle -- and sucked. Medic’s servos were meant to be sensitive, yes? He’d never got to do this before, with his mask in the way, but here was his chance.

Pharma rode out his overload, but the pleasure didn’t subside in the slightest. Tarn knew about the sensitivity of his servos, he had to what with the attention he was lavishing them with. Pharma felt his entire frame shake, barely able to keep his mind on anything but how good this felt. How tender Tarn could be. His spark pulsed hard, yearning, wanting this to continue for the rest of his life. What foolish thoughts. He didn’t have the strength to fight them off. He moaned again, ready to let Tarn do whatever he wished with him as long as this didn’t stop. His finger curled, slightly, feeling Tarn’s glossa firm against it. Pharma’s spike twitched with interest where it still rested behind its panel, rarely used. He always had preferred using his valve, doing half of the work in any given circumstance.

“Tarn...” he whispered again, not sure what he was asking, but basking in what the tankformer gave to him.

 

_ A weakness _ , some distant part of him said, but Tarn ignored it in favor of taking Pharma’s cues and beginning to suck in earnest. Pharma’s delicate, precious fingers were full of precise tools for his trade -- Tarn could probably crush them all if he bit down now. But instead, he paid an uncommon amount of tenderness to carefully trying to map out just where he was the most sensitive.

Normally, this might’ve been too subservient for Tarn, but the blissed out expression on Pharma’s face answered all his questions. He was entirely loose now, all his precious concerns blown out by his overload and now Tarn. Pharma couldn’t protest anything here.

If only he had his voice. Then Pharma wouldn’t be anything more than puddle of pleasure. Until then… Tarn would just have to rely on his other skills.

He continued down on the finger he had in his mouth, taking in a little more down to the second knuckle. Pharma had such small servos compared to him, so it wasn’t difficult.

 

Tarn would actually send him into a sensory overload, Pharma had no doubt of it. He didn’t know how much more he could take, already dissolving into a mess of pleasured satisfaction. This mech could do anything to him at this point, Pharma would take it with a smile on his face. He lifted his helm, feeling too heavy and full to have any trepidation of staring at Tarn so openly, no defenses in sight, no walls to cling to and nothing hiding the affection in his gaze. This poisonous affliction had him in its full thrall. 

With hazy effort, he moved himself on Tarn’s spike, distantly aware that the tankformer had yet to overload at all.

 

Tarn’s concentration on figuring out which part of Pharma’s servos would make him moan was shattered when he felt the comfortable heat around his spike shift. It rippled, moving, and Tarn hissed as his grip on Pharma tightened. How was he supposed to make Pharma melt if the mech was doing the  _ same _ ?

He pushed against Pharma, pressing him to the wall with the bulk of his chest. He pushed in deeper and gave a particularly hard suck to smash down any thoughts that dared arise in Pharma. Tarn could allow himself to fall apart later, but that would be  _ only  _ after Pharma was too dazed to try anything.

Interested in what he’d do, Tarn gave his finger a little nip.

 

Pharma’s first instinct was to pull his hand away, cradle it against his frame and protect it from harm, but he was in an awkward position, pinned by Tarn’s frame and spike and absolutely unable to move his body. He had to trust Tarn with his hand and that was next to impossible. Stilling entirely, he waited, fear immediately back in his field, though it was still thick with post-overload pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lifting his helm up to carefully watch Tarn’s expression. The mech could go from gentle lover to sadistic beast in less than ten seconds, after all.

 

He let the finger fall out of his mouth, looking up at Pharma’s soft apology. He hadn’t expected something like that from the mech. Either he was  _ really  _ terrified, or his walls were down. Was there a difference between the two?

“You didn’t like it,” he surmised, “I won’t do it again.”  _ Unless you do something to deserve it _ . Pharma’s servos were too sensitive for any kind of roughness. Understandable. And educational.

He kissed the back of Pharma’s servo. “Let’s keep going.”

 

Pharma nodded, eager for more that he could regret later. Tarn...the mech was his curse. His inevitable doom. And yet he kept coming back, moth to a flame. He could have refused the Prime’s request. Primus knew he had enough reason to keep away from the DJD for four lifetimes over, and yet he’d jumped at the chance to restore Tarn. For what? A pitiful sense of vengeance? Vengeance didn’t look like this, with Pharma cradling Tarn’s helm, wanting for more kisses and yet waiting for permission. Vengeance shouldn’t find him, filled to the brim with Tarn’s spike, up against a wall and ready to do whatever the mech wanted him to. Hatred shouldn’t have his spark swirling with warmth at being in Tarn’s grasp.

“Anything you want.”

 

“Anything?” Tarn prompted, leaping on the slip.

Pharma was a warm, comfortable weight in his arms. Tarn kissed his fingers again, adding two -- index and middle -- this time. He took more care with his dentae, laving attention on them with his glossa and lips instead.

They were both walking in dangerous territory. Tarn should’ve stopped at the first overload. He should’ve kept this thing going differently. What was he doing, giving Pharma so much? Enough was enough, no matter how gratifying it was to see Pharma look at him like this.

But it was too late. He’d fallen in too deep. Pharma wasn’t the only one making mistakes here.

 

“Mhm, anything...” Pharma didn’t think about it. He had nothing to give, nothing to call his own, and this was worth it. Feeling as good as he did now...he couldn’t recall another time. It was a first, and Tarn was taking, stealing it from him because he was a handsome monster and Pharma was weak in his claws.

His optics offlined, vents sucking in air furiously as Tarn was on his servo again. A whine escaped the medic.

 

_ Enough _ , he tried to stop himself, but Tarn only let go of the other knee and grabbed Pharma’s other servo. This he only held, stroking the palm with his thumb as he explored the tiny seams all over his servos with his glossa. Would sensitivity increase if he got Pharma to open his servos up?

Tarn no longer tried to thrust into Pharma, content to keep it in him while he dedicated his attention to Pharma’s servos. His curiosity made him pull away.

“Open your servos.”

He provided no explanation. Pharma had said  _ anything _ , after all.

 

It was an odd request, and not one of his partners had ever made of him. Pharma hesitated, unsure, but only for a moment. His servos came apart neatly, various medical tools fitted beneath the many, tiny plates that made them up.

“Tarn...” another groan of his mantra and Pharma let his head slam back against the wall with a dull thud. He was close yet another overload and it was all down to this devilish Decepticon, who had the audacity to rest his spike in Pharma like he was some kind of lubricant sleeve.

“What are you doing to me...?”

 

“Just wait.”

Tarn eyed the plethora of tools with a calculating look, trying to see where he could start. Finally, he settled on a spot where he saw the blue plating split open. It required more care than before, but he was slow and thorough. This was just another, new challenge.

Tarn ran his glossa against a shining tool, feeling the warm metal slide smoothly under his attention. He kissed the edges of the blue metal, threading his glossa under it just a little. Tarn had never got to see a medic’s servos this closely, or explore them like this.

It was… informative.

Not that Pharma ever opened his hands like this, completely exposing his greatest treasures. Medics measured each other’s skill by the servos, and Pharma’s were the best. And here was, letting a Decepticon brute lick them like a treat. What was wrong with him?

Possibly the thick sensory overload that whited out his optics. Pharma bit his lip, a wailing sort of moan choked back just before it broke free. His legs were clinging to Tarn’s waist, since the tankformer had long since let go of his knees, and they shook with the effort of keeping still.

“Primus, Tarn!”

 

He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but  _ this  _ certainly ranked high in  _ good results _ . Tarn radiated smugness as he idly kissed along Pharma’s servo, watching him ride out overload and try to control it at the same time. His optics flared a little as Pharma’s legs wrapped around him tighter still, valve clenching around his spike.

He shuddered, before deciding to let up on the servo exploitation for the time being. Watching Pharma go through overload was always engine revving, and Tarn was more than ready to go ahead with his own. He guided Pharma’s servos to around his neck, before grabbing his hips to keep him still.

Tarn wasn’t going to wait until he finished overloading before he started. Pharma’s valve was tighter now that he was so tense, and Tarn rumbled as he moved. He’d been holding back so long that it didn’t long for him to get to the brink of his overload and he suspended there, clutching Pharma.

One more thrust. Another ripple around his spike, and Tarn was gone. He bit Pharma’s shoulder to silence his own sounds, and felt the metal buckle under his dentae. His transfluid joined Pharma’s, and steam poured out between seams.

His knees threatened to fall out under him. Tarn pulled Pharma onto his lap, switching places so he could slide against the wall down to the floor, spent.

 

It was rare of Tarn to show so openly how their mingling ‘deal-making’ procedures affected him, but Pharma was in no position to criticize or point out the obvious. He slumped on Tarn’s frame, still holding on, still connected and filled, transfluid seeping out in thick goblets. His optics offline, he allowed his vents to cycle the excess heat out, his frame splayed out on top of Tarn. If there were cameras, then he was utterly, unbelievably screwed. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. It took a solid five minutes before Pharma had the strength to pull his frazzled mind together and pull away from Tarn, ignoring the wet drip of his valve as the interface panel covers slid closed and his cleaning protocols activated loudly. 

The medic got onto his shaky legs, trying to pull through the haze and assemble his composure.

“You...have to get back on the slab, Tarn.” his voice was still way too soft.

 

He  _ really  _ didn’t want to get up. Tarn would’ve preferred to lay down with Pharma still on him and recharge in peace, without being nagged, but things didn’t seem to go his way too often, barring this incident.

He took a moment to simply vent, just to be contrary, before his spike depressurized and his panel also closed. Mismatched optics, dim with contentment, looked up at Pharma.

“Very well,” he said, too spent to argue over this. Tarn stood up, moving past Pharma without another word. The passion of the moment had dissipated the moment Pharma reminded them both about what need to be done, what the reality of the situation  _ really  _ was.

Tarn lay back on the berth, staring up at the ceiling. “Keep the restraints on the loose side,” he instructed, “it makes me stiff otherwise.”

Would Pharma actually do it, though?

 

Pharma moved to place the clamps, adjusting Tarn’s frame here and there to get him back into the right position. When he did close them it was by far milder than the maximum capacity from before. Pharma came back to the slab one more time, downright caressing Tarn’s arm, then his helm.

“You didn’t ask me for anything else.”

It was a surprise to him as much as Tarn, probably. They’d shared...something. Something Pharma couldn’t identify, because it didn’t come with the benefit of any power to play with. It confused the medic, and intrigued him at the same time.

Maybe Tarn had accepted his inevitable fate. Maybe Tarn just wanted to frag to feel alive after very nearly dying. Maybe it wasn’t in the least about him at all.

 

“There is a time and place for that,” he said. “Now? I am tired. We will… speak more, later, Pharma, but that was all I wanted right now.”

_ Besides freedom and warm body to sleep beside. _

“You’re free to leave.” Tarn didn’t try to encourage or reject the touches to his frame. They were not nearly as thrilling when he was a prisoner again. He turned his helm away, optics offlining as if he meant to recharge.

He would, eventually. But he had some things to consider, most of them revolving around the mech at his berthside. Pharma being here was just… distracting. 

 

“Who is in a cell around here?” Pharma snipped, but he left the argument or lack of one at that. He left without another word, securing the door, the barrier, checking on the other DJD members before finally taking his leave of the brig. He had private quarters, well, nothing more spacious that an elaborate cupboard, but it wasn’t far. He just had to get past the hallway leading to the bar and hope no one, absolutely no one, caught sight of him in this state.

Post-coital bliss subsiding left him with a lot aches that he had taken notice of before. His shoulder, his valve, even his neck was pulsating with discomfort where Tarn had left his marks.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“All right, I think I’ve had enough,” Ratchet announced. There were various protests, but he waved them down until the group he’d been drinking with at the bar let him go. Ratchet wasn’t drunk, of course, only mildly tipsy. He navigated the bar slowly, finally finding the door leading out.

His quarters weren’t far. A hall down, one deck up. Ratchet walked slowly, when he caught sight of someone else at the end of the hall.

He squinted. There was only  _ one  _ person with a silhouette like that, and that was…

“Pharma?”

 

Great. Just great. Pharma had almost made it, he was almost free to nurse his ‘wounds’, but fate would just have Ratchet of all mecha appear and spot him. Since when was his optic calibration good enough for dark corridors like this? 

With his field bristling, Pharma turned to glance over his shoulder, down a long nose at the shorter medic.

“...Yes?”

_ Please, don’t look at me. Please don’t come over. _

 

Ratchet did look at him. Ratchet did come over.

He was only a few steps away from Pharma before he twitched in surprise. “What the -- Pharma. You been ‘facing someone? Because you…”

He gestured at Pharma. It wasn’t just the appearance. He also  _ reeked  _ of charge, so much that he couldn’t have been doing it with any random mech. Someone  _ big  _ let off that much charge.

How was he even supposed to handle this? “I thought you didn’t associate with any of us. Changed your mind so soon?”

 

_ Ratchet _ . Ratchet and his gall to just straight up ask him if he’d been interfacing. Pharma balked at the very notion of interfacing with any of the Peaceful Destiny’s crew. 

“Since when is it any of your business what I do, Ratchet? Don’t you have somewhere else to be obsolete?”

Pharma wanted him gone, and not to ask anymore question. His valve ached, the cleaning protocol engaged so loudly it must have been audible throughout the hallway as it laboured away the viscous, plentiful transfluid.

 

“It is my business as a medic,” he replied mildly, refusing to rise to the bait, “because you’re not looking so hot there. I can see dents. You’re walking funny. I’m pretty sure I could call you in for a check-up,  _ if I really wanted to _ , and no one would stop me. So. In the interests of keeping this civil, why don’t you stop evading?”

He knew Pharma. Pharma walking alone, looking like that? Something was up, and Ratchet didn’t need to be sober to sniff out the slagging lies. Pharma deserved no trust, not after Delphi and Tyrest.

“What’re you up to, Pharma?”

 

The audacity was staggering. If Ratchet had ever acted like an entitled aft before, it was nothing compared to this. As if Pharma had to be ‘up’ to something, just because he seemed to have been interfacing. Or dragged through several walls of the ship.

Pharma planted both servos on his hips, optics flaring with annoyance.

“I am not up to anything except my assigned job, Ratchet, which you thought yourself too good to do. What I do in my spare time is not subject to your inquisition.”

 

“Assigned -- the brig. You were in the brig. With the Decepticons.” The connections were made too fast for Ratchet’s comfort, but he shoved away the idea. Not even Pharma was low enough to do something like that. Not with  _ them _ .

“How the hell do you do your job, and come out like that?”

_ Maybe one of the mutineers? _

 

“I didn’t say I was doing my job right now, you idiot!” Pharma sniped, more and more irritated by Ratchet’s lucid connections. He was truly terrible at keeping things a secret, but this was partially Tarn’s fault for marking him up like this.

“Maybe I went to meet...someone somewhere quiet. Maybe the brig is quiet and private. Could you keep your nasty, rancid old servos out of my business for at least a decade? You’ve made it pretty clear that you and I are not even colleagues anymore.”

 

“You and I are still Autobots,” Ratchet said stubbornly, even if he didn’t really believe it anymore. Pharma’s refusal to talk about it was getting increasingly dodgy.

“You’re not the type to go a  _ brig _ . You have your own quarters. Either tell the truth, or learn to lie better.”

“You are insufferable, do you know that?” Pharma was not going to tell Ratchet the truth. Of course not. This was a private matter and it shouldn’t concern the old bucket of rust at all and yet here he was, making life difficult for Pharma.

“Why are you so interested in who I ‘face with? It could be anyone, for all you care, it could be your damn precious buddy Prime. He’s a big mech.”

 

“He’s too good for you,” Ratchet told him bluntly. “And he would  _ never  _ do all of that to his partner. Or let them wander around in the dark. You were in the brig. It was someone in there. Don’t bother lying, because you’re just pointing to the truth more.”

He moved closer, looking ready to check out Pharma’s injuries whether he liked it or not.

 

Pharma’s mouth snapped into a tight line. He hated Ratchet right now. Well, not just right now. He hated the mech for abandoning him along with everyone else. Cantankerous old fool. He was probably jealous. He doubted anyone would want to leave marks on Ratchet’s boxy old frame.

Maybe he just shouldn’t say anything at all. But what if Ratchet intended to go down there? Tarn’s cell would certainly still smell like recent interfacing, Ratchet and his fat nose would know that in an instant. Panic was beginning to seep in, along with regret and ache.

“... _ He _ does this to me. He always did. Back then, Delphi... Now.”

Maybe the truth was absurd enough to have Ratchet leave him alone.

 

“Who’s he?” His question was mostly rhetorical, though, as Ratchet’s mind raced through all the options and found only one.

“ _ Tarn _ .”

And suddenly everything on Pharma looked more sinister. The bites, the dents… “What did he  _ do _ ?” Ratchet breathed. His mind set, he grabbed Pharma’s wrist. “We’re going to the medibay. After that, Optimus. I am pulling you  _ off  _ the DJD and sending you to Rung for counselling. I  _ told  _ Optimus those animals didn’t need treating. And now what? One of them  _ raped  _ you.”

 

Pharma flinched when Ratchet belted out Tarn’s designation, but for all the wrong reasons. A surge of protective rage simmered right beneath his plating, he wanted to plant himself and snarl at Ratchet that Tarn could never do that to him. Not because Tarn wasn’t a brute, but because Pharma wasn’t some hapless victim. Well. He believed that about himself. Resentment built in him for having suggested it in the first place. Not that Tarn’s trial would go any differently, but now, he wouldn’t even have Pharma’s treatment or company?

“You  _ can’t _ pull me off of the DJD. They’re not recovered. They’re my patients.” he vented a heavy sigh. 

This, this was the lie that Ratchet chose to believe?

“The last thing I want is Autob...to be treated like a pathetic victim, Ratchet. I need to work. There’s been far worse things happening in the universe than...this.”

 

“Yes, I can. I’m the Chief Medical Officer of the Autobots, like it or not, and I am  _ ordering  _ you to report to the medibay. I can pull medics off cases, especially when they’re like  _ this _ .”

Ratchet’s expression softened, and he patted Pharma’s forearm. “It’s okay, Pharma. No one will think you any less for this. This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t  _ ask  _ for it.”

He dragged Pharma down the hall, to where the medibay was. He’d already commed Optimus with the details. They might’ve left Tarn mostly alone, but this was going to bring the storm to  _ him _ .

 

Oh frag. How did Pharma even begin to unravel this mess? Ratchet seemed sympathetic to his cause, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Vent. Cool down. This could work. Tarn was already a prisoner, and bound for a dooming trial. How could this make it worse? It didn’t matter. Pharma would look like a victim, and Pharma would get through this unscathed. 

Except...well. Now his access to Tarn was slipping from his grasp. And that felt...worse. Pharma needed his access, he needed his...what, his fix? This affliction with Tarn was growing worse by the second, and the memory of the tankformer gently pleasuring his servos didn’t help. He’d just rid himself of any chance of more of that, simply by trying to escape an uncomfortable interrogation by Ratchet.

The medibay should feel comforting to him, given that it was his natural work environment. Now, it made his insides clench and his servos twitch. He didn’t want anyone to touch him. Could he bypass an inspection by faking trauma? Probably. 

“Of course not. I just...don’t want everyone to know. But you can’t give me a slice of dignity, can you Ratchet? I just want to recharge.”

 

Ratchet would’ve liked to drag Pharma all the way in front of Optimus and tell him that this was  _ exactly  _ why you don’t fix unstable monsters like Tarn. But that was selfish. Pharma had gone through a major, traumatic ordeal that he should be trying to help with, not further his own campaign.

“At least let me give you a check-up,” he tried, “Then we’ll do this in the next shift. Tarn  _ must  _ be punished for this, Pharma. We can’t let things like that slide.”

 

No, no no. This was not what he’d been aiming for. Did Ratchet have to be so concerned about this? Things like this happened all the time, without anyone making a fuss. What happened to not caring about Pharma’s fate?

“Fine. But I am fine. I can check myself. We don’t have to take this to Prime. Ta...That monster is already locked up. You can’t exactly make things worse for him.”

Pharma didn’t know what guilt felt like, but the burning shame in his core was probably that. He looked away, trying to remain composed, calm. But everything was going right back to hell, and he was so tired of it. He offlined his optics when he got on the slab, preserving his memories of brief tenderness with Tarn. Was that so difficult to want? Was that just an impossibly distant memory now? It seemed like it. Pharma felt more alone than he had in all the years freezing in Delphi. 

 

“Yes, I can,” Ratchet promised darkly. “Let’s see how much he likes losing all his senses. Or having his spark pulled out and put into a box.”

He looked at Pharma, about to say something, before he thought better of it.  _ He doesn’t know Tyrest. But Delphi, on the other hand... _ “I still don’t trust you. I think you’re an awful, terrible person who deserves life imprisonment for what happened on Delphi. But you don’t deserve  _ that _ .”

Ratchet started to scan Pharma, tutting every so often. “He  _ really  _ did a number on you. Your neck cabling’s weakened and probably need replacement. He could’ve ripped your main pump out if he’d gone in deeper. Your legs are dented. The shoulder will need some welding and buffing, maybe see if he damaged any smaller tubes under it. But I will have to check…”

Ratchet coughed.

“It’s procedure for all cases like these, Pharma. It doesn’t need to be awkward.”

 

“How could it not be awkward?” Pharma sighed, already resigned to the checkup. He was sort of glad Tarn had skipped the foreplay earlier, because now, his valve would look the part. Not to mention it was still pretty soaked with transfluid...

“Just do what you have to. And try not to leer.”

The panelling slid back with a wet squelch.

 

Ratchet blanched.

He moved back so Pharma couldn’t see his expression as he surveyed the damage. Wrestling his disgust down, Ratchet spoke. “Tears in the lining  and inflammation from penetration. Bleeding, deeper inside. General stress on the array due to,” Ratchet squinted, before scowling, “due to penetration of large object.”

He tried to avoid the transfluid puddling on the slab. It was still  _ fresh.  _ “Drone, collect samples to check if the perpetrator has any viruses.”

Fresh. On the thick side. A  _ lot _ . “Perpetrator evidently hasn’t engaged in interface for at least a year, maybe more, due to the consistency and… amount of fluid.”

Ratchet kind of wanted to hit Tarn. It would be suicide, but he really, really did. “Damages appear to be minimal. Patient -- I mean, Pharma, you’ll need a fresh nanite injection, maybe lining repair, and you’ll be okay.”

 

The whole procedure was humiliating, but Pharma had offlined his optics and delved into the memory of it. Every damage diagnosed by Ratchet came with the heavy reminder of how good it had felt to have it. When Tarn spiked him, bliss had run throughout his entire being. When Tarn pulled overload after overload from him, Pharma felt the closest thing to joy he’d ever known. How could Ratchet pick any of this apart? How dare Ratchet make judgements on what Pharma needed?

“Nanites yes, lining repair no. It’ll heal on its own. It’s not like I was planning to put it to use aboard this ship.”

He onlined his optics to look at Ratchet, who could barely contain his disgust. The raggedy old fool had no idea that this was the evidence to Pharma’s bliss.

“A year? That would explain some things...” Really, had Tarn not made use of any of his spare time and division members? Pharma felt an uncalled for sense of pride. The tankformer evoked possession in him, even if it was impossible to live out.

“He needed an outlet.”

 

“An outlet.” Ratchet’s tone was so flat, it could’ve been used a baseline. “That’s what you think you are? His  _ outlet _ ? Some -- some  _ hole  _ he uses to vent whatever horrible things that go through his processor?”

He rubbed a servo down his face. “Pharma, this is beyond just rape trauma. You have a problem. A serious, serious problem because you’re  _ not  _ understanding the gravity of the situation!”

He thumped his fist on the slab.

“He  _ raped you _ . How can you act so  _ calm  _ about it?!”

“Worse things have happened to me.” Pharma replied, his tone as cold as a Messatine blizzard. Especially since this ‘rape’ had been nothing but consensual, Pharma felt defensive of it, as if he somehow needed to protect his precious memory of the intimacy shared in that cell. Tarn, kissing his servos. Tarn, slowing his thrusts down to please him. Tarn, kissing his helm with all the tenderness he was never deemed capable of.

“You have no idea what I have been through, Ratchet. And it’s fine. Don’t care about this either. I’ve known Tarn for years...long, long years. The things I have had to do for that mech would turn your tanks. So don’t start with me now. I know what I am to him. I can’t say the same about the rest of my supposed comrades, my faction that sent me to die and be forgotten in the cold.”

 

Pharma’s speech stopped Ratchet for only a moment, before he regained his momentum again. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you,” he said gruffly, “And that we let you go to Messatine, where  _ he  _ was. If you hadn’t met him, maybe you wouldn’t have…”

_ Gone crazy and tried to kill us _ .

“... done all that. But it’s happened. And now I want to help you, Pharma. I don’t want you to live with Tarn’s ghost around you forever. He’s going to die. And you will be free of him, permanently. You won’t ever have to see him, or speak to him. He will be  _ gone _ .”

 

Every word Ratchet added to that statement tore more into Pharma’s spark. Ratchet didn’t have the right to decide any of this. He was wrong. Tarn would never be gone. Tarn would always be there, he’d said so himself. Always stalking and taunting Pharma until they clashed in a wondrously toxic intimacy that belonged to only the two of them.

His turbine whined loudly and Pharma struggled to keep his optics free of fluid. Why, why was Ratchet trying to make him feel better? Each time he reminded Pharma of the limited time Tarn had left to live, his tanks rolled unpleasantly. He was angry, and nauseous, and some kind of furiously possessive.

“I...don’t...”  _ want that. I don’t want to be free.  _

The realization of it hit Pharma like a speeding triplechanger. He didn’t want to be rid of Tarn. He wanted to play their twisted games. He wouldn’t even mind breaking every protocol of his medical code to do so.

He sucked in air, struggling with the thought.

“I need to speak...at least once. I need to tell him what I think. Closure. Yes. Closure. I want that. I want a new life, Ratchet.”

“I understand.”  _ This is progress, right? _

“But that can wait. Until the next shift. I’ll take you to the brig and go in with you, so you’re not alone with him. Then we go to Optimus.” Ratchet nodded, pleased with his plan.

 

Recharging had afforded Pharma some calming down, especially concerning his spiralling thoughts about Tarn. All in all, his lie had worked out just fine. Ratchet even pitied him now, wasn’t that just perfect? The only downside was his impending lack of access to Tarn. He’d gotten one single visit out of Ratchet, and it would be supervised too, but it was better than nothing.

Right? Right.

So by the time the shift rolled around, Pharma had composed himself. No more of these outbursts of emotions. He’d shown Ratchet too much already, although it did help his case. Now everyone would think he was a completely mentally unstable wreck.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. None of these mecha mattered. 

“You don’t have to come in.” Pharma tried again to futilely shake off the grim looking medic, but to no avail. Ratchet would probably insert himself as a solid barrier. Pharma sighed as the cell unlocked and he saw Tarn just as he left him, on his slab, recharging or pretending to, clamps reasonably tight but not enough to cause discomfort. 

A rush of pride filled him. Tarn looked almost exactly as he used to before being blown up with antimatter, sans his mask and weapons. All thanks to his reconstructive work. 

Pharma approached the slab.

 

Tarn had been awake since the doors opened. He tracked movement out of the corner of his optic, and turned, about to greet Pharma -- when he saw the other medic.

“What is this?” he asked, suspicious. He didn’t think Pharma would have betrayed him but… why was Ratchet there, watching them? Since when had anyone entered  _ their  _ private zone? Pharma didn’t look triumphant, or smug, so it couldn’t have been some plan of his.

He could sense the upset in Pharma’s field.  _ Something is wrong _ .

“I didn’t realize I have the privilege of  _ two  _ medics attending to me now,” he said dryly, trying to provoke an answer to all this. “Pharma seemed sufficient.”

 

Tarn was smart enough to read his field. Pharma would have relaxed, if that wasn’t completely inappropriate in his situation. He wanted to touch Tarn badly, but Ratchet’s beady optics were observant.

“I...won’t be tending to you as your medic anymore, Tarn.” He didn’t have to try very hard to sound scornful, there was still plenty of bile in him directed at Tarn.

“Not after what you’ve done to me.”

 

If Pharma was trying to answer his questions, then he wasn’t doing a very good job of it as even  _ more  _ questions piled up.

“I… see,” he said slowly, frowning, “Then who will be my medic? Ratchet?”

Something was up. Tarn wished he’d had the foresight to nab Pharma’s private channel for this. “I thought he refused to treat me.”

 

“That’s...not been decided. You’re recovered enough to be functional. You don’t need further medical attention.” Pharma wanted so badly to tell Tarn what happened, but he also was glad he couldn’t. Still, with Ratchet here, this farewell would be severely lacking.

“Ratchet is pulling me off of your unit. And sending me to...psychological help. Or something of the kind. Not that it matters to you. This’ll be the last time I have to lay optics on your garish frame.”

He didn’t want it to be. He wanted Ratchet out of here. He didn’t have much choice. Leaning down to Tarn’s audial, he lowered his voice to a near silent whisper.

“He saw. The marks. I had no choice. I will come back to you, somehow.”

 

Tarn made no motion to show he understood. He may as well be a statue, for how still he was.

“Finally,” he said dully. “Pharma was beginning to  _ bore  _ me. He’s so predictable and getting him to do what I wanted… well, it was child’s play. I’m glad he’s gone.”

He looked beyond Pharma, to Ratchet. Furious blue met cool mismatched optics, and Tarn smirked.

“Send another, would you? It can be so dreadfully dull in here.”

There was murder in Ratchet’s gaze. Murder, and the the promise to keep people away. It suited Tarn just fine. He looked back at Pharma.

“You’ll be back. And I’ll be waiting.”

Relief and anxiety were an odd combination, but Pharma felt them wash over him nonetheless. He scowled down at Tarn, mostly for Ratchet’s benefit, before he turned on his heel and left the cell. Tarn had understood. And Pharma had somehow, thrown his lot mostly in with this sordid story between them. He would be back. He could guarantee it. Now, Tarn was forbidden to him, it only pushed up the urgency to devour that frame in an unsightly manner. 

“Let’s go. I can’t look at him anymore.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Tarn didn’t understand the full situation just yet. He knew what he and Pharma had done was known, but not why Pharma was free. A part of him  _ suspected _ , but he was going to wait until Pharma himself confirmed it.

Until then, he would wait. As it turned out, waiting was not nearly as comfortable as it should have been.

Tarn could deal with boredom. Boredom was familiar and safe, if aggravating, and it was alleviated by the fact that he knew Pharma would come, sooner or later.

But  _ someone  _ out there seemed to be very  _ upset  _ with Tarn’s general existence. They tampered with his cell’s settings, so Tarn spent his hours on the verge of critical overheat, vents desperately gasping for cooler air as he panted, or feeling his inner energon clot as temperatures plummeted. There was no in between, and his discomfort didn’t end there. His restraints were on full max, allowing not even a little amount of shifting. He couldn’t even move his helm anymore.

Time passed. Tarn’s frame ached from the temperature extremes and stiffness, and his mood soured in response. His previously mild imagined conversations turned to full-blown screaming matches with Pharma, with some assault thrown in there when he got particularly bitter.

Pharma’s explanation better be  _ very  _ good.

 

It took Pharma a long time to arrange his visit. His secret visit that had to be executed with stealth, bartered for with some unsavoury exchanges regarding security, and just in general a pain to arrange.

But he made it. He was kind of absurdly proud of that. Being back in the brig was not what he’d planned on doing when he first got onto the Peaceful Destiny, but now, it had been his solitary mission. Armed only with energon, he opened the cell. Quietly. Quickly. He strode over to the slab, already seeing that Tarn was in infinitely worse condition than when he’d last clapped optics on him. This time, Ratchet wasn’t hanging around like a wrathful motherhen.

“For Primus’ sake. This is barbaric.” Pharma had no authority to be loosening Tarn’s clamps or changing the temperature, which was sweltering in the cell, but he did so anyway. Getting unpleasantly intimate with one of the guards had been worth it, although it would take a week of intense scrubbing to the the mech’s touch off of his aft.

Once the clamps hissed as they loosened, Pharma carefully rounded the slab to look at Tarn. A notion of apology hung to his lips, but he didn’t express it.

“You’ve looked better. And worse.”

 

Tarn almost wished they were back on Delphi and Pharma was terrified of misstepping around him. Almost.

His dentae creaked as he ground them, painfully working out each kink in his joints with uncomfortable creaks. He  _ had  _ felt worse, yes. But they’d been short periods, nothing like this sustained consistent torture that wore down his mind until he found nothing but a limitless well of anger at every single Autobot on this ship.

Including Pharma.

“ _ You _ ,” he said darkly, as soon as he was able to sit up on the berth. “Explain. Now.”

Tarn wasn’t going to entertain any emotional reunions, not until he got to hear just  _ exactly  _ what Pharma did.

 

Pharma still flinched at the tone, expecting punishment when Tarn was powerless to do much. Well. He was a little more free to move right now, nearly completely unshackled. The guard had upheld his end of the deal, surprisingly enough.

“It’s...well...partially your fault.” He snapped, not intending to take the blame for Tarn’s destructive interfacing. He had had more than enough time to unload blame and allocate his wandering emotional range to its appropriate corner in his mind. 

“The dents you left on me. They were bound to be noticed. Ratchet noticed. There was...he would have come down here and stuck his nose in every cell. There was no other way to explain it.”

 

“So they know. It doesn’t explain why you’re free, and I’m in my cell. They know, but you said it  _ differently _ , didn’t you?” Tarn wasn’t going to say it. Either Pharma would confess as to what he’d done, or he could flounder until Tarn’s withered patience finally ran out.

“You can tell me the truth, Pharma, or you can get out. Make your choice quickly.” 

“Fine. I may have spun things to make my participation seem...unwilling. The bodily evidence was enough to convince them. Is that what you wanted to hear? I made them believe you  _ raped _ me. That’s why they pulled me off of you and your unit.”

Pharma was out of reach, three paces from Tarn’s slab. Just because he had a strange obsession with the mech didn’t mean he trusted in him to control his rage.

 

Briefly, Tarn’s servos spasmed as if he was about to wring Pharma’s neck. Instinct made him point his arm, as if he still had a fusion cannon. His rage ballooned up, EM field blooming with the toxic emotion, before it shattered just as quickly.

“That is convenient for you,” Tarn said mildly, voice carefully moderated through years of practice, watching Pharma, “isn’t it? Leave the blame on me, so you can get off scot-free.”

What had he been  _ expecting  _ from this, anyway? What, did Tarn really think that one incident would change the dynamic between them? How could he have been so delusional? Pharma was Pharma -- venomous, short-tempered, and mercurial. He would sell Tarn out in a hot second if it meant saving his own plate, and this just proved it.

_ I was stupid to think anything had changed. _

“I will be dying soon, so it doesn’t matter what else you decide to say about me. Never mind the that fact that I have  _ never  _ done that to you, or anyone else. It was smart of you. Ruthless and smart. Good job. I understand now.”

“You can go.”

 

But he didn’t want to. Pharma didn’t expect Tarn to be quite so...broody about it all. He thought Tarn understood how he ticked. He thought Tarn, of all mecha, would at least be amused that Pharma had found such a convenient loophole.

“You won’t die.”

He couldn’t. Nothing could kill Tarn. And Pharma had a plan for adjusting fate there too, though with Tarn in a mood like this, he doubted whether or not he could execute it. He came closer to the slab, within Tarn’s reach, despite everything in him screaming to flee, to save himself and leave everything else behind.

“I’m here to remove your inhibitor.”

Pharma planted the energon on the side of the slab, peeling off the lid and removing a laser scalpel, tucked away from Pulse’s medibay, into sight. 

Mood thoroughly gone south, Tarn barely looked at the scalpel. He wasn’t here to be reasonable. Surely he had some right to be angry that Pharma had gone and done this, right?

_ Right _ .

But -- some damnably reasonable and practically minded part of him said -- he needed his inhibitor off if he was ever going to regain his talent. Otherwise, Tarn might as well be just another overpowered Decepticon soldier. It was his secret tool, his last resort that had gotten him out of more than one disaster.

“Do it quickly.” Tarn opened his mouth, tilting his helm back so Pharma could get at the inhibitor lodged in the roof of his mouth. He barely noticed it anymore, the biggest sign being how he could no longer reach the notes to manipulates sparks.

 

Pharma nodded, at least having something to do would bridge the awkward gap left by Tarn’s simmering rage. He had the right to be angry, Pharma supposed, but he would never feel as if it was any kind of productive to sulk about it. Especially since Pharma risked everything by coming down here in the first place.

“Hold still. Really, really still.” Pharma’s servos opened, a finer set of tools wielding the scalpel and an additional lense folding down from his helm for microscopic surgery. It didn’t take him long, it was one sharp cut through the trigger backup line and then, the damn thing could be pulled free and crushed in even a delicate medic’s servo.

All Tarn would feel was a light sting and burn in the roof of his mouth for a while.

Pharma wondered if this was a mistake, unleashing one of the universe’s deadliest mecha just like that.

“It’s done.”

 

A little sting. A small hole, right at the roof of his mouth. Tarn swallowed, trying to feel out his talent. It was hard to describe what using it felt like but…

“ _ Kn _ eel,” he tried, but the talent cut off before even the first harmonic passed through. His vocalizer vibrated unpleasantly. It wasn’t there yet, then. Dormant, perhaps.

He looked at Pharma, wondering. He’d betrayed Tarn. Then he’d come back and taken off another one of his shackles.

A bad. And a good. Those cancelled each other out, didn’t they?

He glanced at the door, then back at Pharma.  _ Not much time left _ .  _ You might never see him again. _

He made up his mind. A claw curled, beckoning.

“Closer.”

 

Tarn didn’t need his fully active talent to garner Pharma’s obedience. The medic did come, slowly, optics a little wide. He felt the slightest tug at his spark, urging him to obey rather than face the agony that came if he didn’t. Old habits died hard.

“Just so we’re clear. It’ll be slow to recover. It has to self-heal from your destruction first.”

His voice hitched at the end, but that mostly due to him being close enough to feel Tarn’s field wash over him.

 

Quick as a flash, he snagged Pharma by a wing. Using it to pull him closer, Tarn rested his other servo on the side of his helm.

“Let’s make something very clear between us,” he said lightly, “I may tolerate a lot of things. You may be one of the few people I allow this close to me, aside from my team. This does  _ not  _ mean you are completely untouchable. There is only so far, only so much that I can be  _ pushed _ , Pharma. No matter what happens, don’t forget  _ that _ .”

He wouldn’t assault Pharma. It wouldn’t be prudent to mark him, though Tarn was tempted to twist his wing a little in punishment.

He didn’t. Instead, Pharma was pulled onto his lap and Tarn rested his chin on the top of his helm.

 

Pharma was petrified for almost a full minute, his frame locked down in shock. Or maybe fear. Maybe both. He should have expected far worse from Tarn, honestly, which was he had taken the time to devise a plan to appease the Decepticon. Hence the inhibitor becoming crumbled remnants on the cell floor.

But once he realised that this flare of temper would be his only punishment, Pharma dared to relax. Or at least, move and cycle air through his vents. He was so close to Tarn like this. He could rest against the massive warframe, knowing Tarn wasn’t about to crush him. Pharma released the tiniest of sighs, bumping his head against Tarn’s thick neckcables.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been forced to endure head-shrinking attempts nearly every day. I don’t...feel like anyone trusts me. Maybe for good reason. Being an Autobot means nothing to them. Or to me, anymore.”

 

“It always meant nothing,” Tarn said simply. His digits curled around a wing, tracing its edges and small seams. Pharma felt delicate like this, smaller somehow, and Tarn found himself curling around him a little tighter.

“How much time do we have?” Tarn asked. “Minutes? Hours?” There wasn’t a hopeful lilt at the last one, of course. He was only bored, that was all.

He’d spent a lot of time thinking, after the first time Pharma allowed him loose. About why he’d done what he did, why he was going towards something that held no discernable prize. He was… fond of Pharma. Always ready to extinguish him, but fond. Life was better spent with the doctor in it, and that was that.

So Tarn petted his wings and rumbled contentedly, basking in the first non-hostile company he’d had in weeks.

 

“Ten minutes. Maybe less, if the guard decides to be an aft. He certainly is fond of aft.” Pharma told Tarn’s shoulder, actively trying to discreetly suck in Tarn’s scent. He smelled a little singed, as if his circuitry had been exposed to too much heat, but otherwise, very much like himself. Which was amazing considering how many spare parts Pharma had built him out of.

“Ratchet vowed to punish you. I am going to take a wild guess and say it was him with the restraints...and the temperature.”

Pharma remembered the energon he’d brought, reached for it and pressed it into Tarn’s grasp. Another offering to assuage his rage.

 

Tarn took the offering as what it was, though his attention was taken up by something else. “What is that about a guard?” he sipped his energon, his free servo now curled around Pharma’s waist loosely. Sitting together like this was comfortable. It was… nice.

“Try and push Ratchet out of an airlock,” Tarn said. “If you won’t, I’ll see how I can kill him.”

Tarn had been very, very uncomfortable. Providing a target for his still-present anger was just convenient.

 

“If he’ll even fit through one,” Pharma muttered, taking advantage of his position and leaning his weight into Tarn. This was more comfortable than any berth he’d ever been on.

“I don’t know why he is taking this so personally. He’d expressed his disgust of me plenty of times. And of course the brig is guarded. I had to get in here somehow. Luckily of the mecha is an aftgrabber.”

Autobot security was a joke. He saw that now. Tarn was one of the most dangerous mecha of their entire species, and a little groping got him ten minutes alone in Tarn’s cell.

 

“He’s a  _ what _ ?” Tarn’s loose grip turned into a vice, claws digging into the waist plating. His optics seemed sharper, brighter. He wasn’t back to raging again, but he didn’t need to. His EM field spoiled, sending needle thin stabs of  _ confusion  _ and  _ affront  _ around. A bigger feeling overshadowed them all, however, as Tarn  _ seethed  _ in a black cloud of  _ jealousy _ .

“His name and appearance, if you will.” Tarn wasn’t going to do something  _ now _ . But if he ever got the chance…

Tarn wasn’t the kind to  _ share _ .

 

Pharma  _ preened _ at that. Tarn’s jealousy was all kinds of flattering, the urge to kill the offensive party even more evidence that Pharma was valued. The fickle medic let his turbine purr at that. He couldn’t expect Tarn to actually go and rip the mech’s arm off, but the fantasy was nice.

“Burly mech. Very undistinguished, round shoulderplates, green visor, goes by the designation of Pistoncracker. But it doesn’t matter, Tarn. If you use your voice...if it recovers...you should not stay. You should leave, and get as far away from Cybertron as you can. I know what they’re planning for the trial. They’re already discussing your execution. And...I don’t...I don’t want to watch you receive a triple tap.”

 

It might be the first time Pharma ever said he didn’t want Tarn to die. Oh, there were plenty of times he  _ implied  _ that he would like Tarn to be alive, but he’d never said to him, directly, that he wanted Tarn alive and well.

All the boundaries and presumptions about what their deal meant were getting knocked down, one by one. They were treading new grounds here and Tarn found himself increasingly dumbfounded, like he’d stepped into water that was deeper than he’d expected. He had no script to follow here, no one guiding him along. What was Pharma  _ doing _ ?

Tarn didn’t verbalize his confusion. He stuck to what he knew. Killing. “Pistoncracker,” he said, derisive, already planning on how to kill him, “Stop fretting. I will die -- or I won’t. We shall see.”

Tarn wasn’t entirely planning on dying, despite his earlier words at Pharma. He was still aimless now that Megatron had denounced the Cause, beyond killing Megatron and… and then what?

Tarn didn’t know.

 

He wasn’t fretting. Pharma sucked in a sharp vent in order not to snap at Tarn, which was probably a bad idea considering how close to anger the mech had been just moments ago. Pharma didn’t know what kind of ice he was treading on. Like this, sitting with Tarn as if they were secret...something with each other. It was new and strange and Pharma was vaguely excited, but mostly anxious. He didn’t fret for Tarn’s future. He worried for his own, and what it would be if Tarn’s memory was the only thing haunting him. He supposed, if he looked at it rationally, there was nothing more he could do for Tarn. He’d explained the circumstances, his future, helped remove one important shackle on him and he’d been the one to restore Tarn to full functionality in the first place. He had done more than enough for Tarn that he didn’t have to feel panicked guilt about being the reason the tankformer had to endure some unpleasantries.

But if one thing had stuck with Pharma, it was the irrational fear that something he did would disappoint Tarn and result in punishment for him. Whether it was the torture of his spark spasming in the grip of Tarn’s talent, or an interfacing so endurant that Pharma lost all semblance of a mind, or simply agony at the servos of this mech, something would come for him. No matter how placid and kind Tarn was at this moment. They had not moved beyond that, had they?

Pharma didn’t know. And he didn’t think they had the time to find out. He curled closer, as if he wanted Tarn’s massive frame to swallow him up.

“Your unit has been restored to consciousness. They watched me come in. They didn’t seem surprised to see me.”

He didn’t want to make smalltalk, but letting Tarn known the parameters of what was happening beyond his cell felt important and a good placeholder for the conversation they should be having about this unnamed new dynamic between them.

 

“That’s good. Have they said anything at all?” Tarn agreed with the more neutral path the conversation was going down. That was safe. He still didn’t understand why Pharma was just  _ telling  _ him all this, no questions asked or payment given, and found a kernel of suspicion still present. Pharma might be giving him all this, just so he can call it all in later. It would suit him.

Still, information was information. Tarn would take what he was given. If Pharma overstepped -- he would address that when it happens.

“Vos’ condition --”

Tarn stopped.

Very, very gently, he could feel the ship shaking. “Do you feel that?”

It was hardly a tremble, but it was definitely noticeable. Pharma frowned. They were nowhere near Cybertron, and last he checked, there were no jumps planned with the Lost Light in tow. Maybe an asteroid shower? But whoever was at the helm should have steered them around it if so.

“Perhaps someone is napping on the bridge.” He commented, thinking nothing more of it. And really, why should he? With his current condition and Tarn’s lack of options, the future looked pretty grim, whichever angle he examined it from.

“I can’t stay much longer.”

It would turn out he couldn’t stay even a minute longer, because a burly mech appeared in the door, snarling for Pharma to move away from the prisoner. Behind him, a taller mech looked scandalized.

Pharma should have expected Pistoncracker to make use of the precarious deal, and apparently, he was right. The mech wanted to catch him in the act, it seemed.

 

Oh. How lovely. Tarn felt the shaking again. It wasn’t the shaking one got from navigating a meteor field. It was too… centralized. Too  _ direct _ .

_ This ship is under attack _ .

Under attack meant panic. Panic meant opportunities for escape. And now, one of his targets had come down to make themselves all nicely available.

At this rate, Tarn might almost be tempted to turn to religion. Things were  _ finally  _ looking his way.

He put Pharma down and slid off the berth. Two mecha, armed and ready to fight. Tarn, weaponless and alone.

Good odds, all in all. With a mocking tilt of his helm, Tarn beckoned them closer. He wouldn’t mind putting his fists through someone’s chest, and he had a  _ lot  _ of things to work out.


	7. Chapter 7

The shaking came again. Not a random impact then. Pharma was in a bad, bad position. The guards, though at least they looked intimidated, weren’t about to let him slide out of sight. Being behind Tarn seemed like the safest option for now. He had no doubt that the two Autobots, though fully armed, were going to struggle, at the very least.  
And then they opened fire. Pharma’s plating wasn’t designed for a fire-fight or blaster impact. The medic darted away, into a corner that perhaps wouldn’t be aimed at since it didn’t contain Tarn, but he was no innocent bystander anymore. Pistoncracker turned, maybe there was even a smirk under that vizor, and shot Pharma where he stood.  
His nameless compatriot concentrated his fire on Tarn, not even noticing the deviation. Terror was giving him terrible aim.

A normal mech would’ve sought cover. A normal mech would be injured when shot with conventional weaponry.  
Tarn wasn’t a normal mech. The shots ricocheted off his plating and he grabbed the berth from each side. It took two yanks -- one to rip the bolts out of the ground, another to fully lift it into the air -- and he sent it flying towards the guards. Most of it got stuck in the doorframe, but momentum carried it through, crushing one against the wall.  
But Tarn wasn’t done. He stalked closer, optics on the door to see if anything would impede his way. The barrier was gone, and the door was open. An experimental wave of his servo showed that he could pass through just fine.  
Tarn kicked the berth aside. The crushed mech looked like one big dent, and he had no time to raise his gun before Tarn’s foot went through his chest and stomped his spark into separate, flickering shards.  
A shot scorched his back. Tarn turned slowly and saw Pistoncracker.  
He was backed up against the wall, keeping an impressive aim despite the fact that he was trapped with Tarn blocking the way out. Slowly, Tarn advanced. Another shot, at his chest.  
Tarn began to hum the opening strains of the Suite, feeling a curious kind of vengeful glee. The distance between them grew smaller and Pistoncracker’s fear was thick in the air.  
“I would say that this isn’t personal, and that you were here at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, tone almost friendly. “But I would be lying if I did.”  
He batted the gun out of his servos, and pinned his retreat with a pede on his leg. “This is absolutely personal.” The knee crunched as Tarn pressed his weight down on it, and Pistoncracker shrieked.  
“See, I normally don’t do much physical torture. It’s messy. It gets old.” He took another step, and Pistoncracker’s abdomen burst apart in a shower of fuel and cracked metal. “But for you? I think I’ll make an exception.”  
One massive purple servo closed over his gibbering face, and Tarn began to pull.  
“I don’t have three days, unfortunately. But I think this is still rather effective, don’t you?”  
With a jerk, his helm was ripped free, trailing cables and tubes as Pistoncracker’s final screams cut off into nothing. His body slumped down, and Tarn stepped on his chest, just to feel his spark get crushed. It fizzled, and Tarn smiled.  
Taking the helm with him, he walked back to his cell.  
“I did tell you I would kill him, didn’t I?” The helm was dropped in front of Pharma rather unceremoniously. Tarn would’ve taken the T-cogs too, but he had a feeling he was going to have an abundance of those in short order.  
“Are you coming?”

Pharma clutched at his cockpit, energon seeping through his fingers. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but getting shot never felt good. His wing had been hit too, and that was the worse of the injuries he’d sustained during the short but absolutely brutal fight. Tarn’s viciousness was nothing new, and under different circumstances, his vengeful murdering might even be sort of sweet. But Pharma was shaken up, not just by the guards dying, but by the whole situation. The ship must be under attack if no one else but those two had come to the brig. And now they were dead, and Tarn was free. To do whatever he pleased. Pharma didn’t know where he fit into that, or if they really stood a chance to escape. Tarn didn’t have his voice, or his weapons. If Pharma was caught at his side, on his side, he’d be just as much of a target. Was he really throwing his lot in with the DJD commander, on an Autobot vessel under the command of Optimus Prime?  
“...I...” His turbine sputtered, clogging up with energon from a severed line. No transformation. Well, wasn’t that inconvenient?  
What were his options? Stay in the cell? Wait until someone found him, and try to frame himself a victim yet again? Or go with Tarn and end in a hail of blasterfire?  
“Where will you go?” he took a step forward, daintily avoiding the helm of the dead mech.

“Away.” That was as good an answer as any. It wasn’t like Tarn really had been planning this in advance. He saw an opportunity, and he’d taken it.  
Why, he asked, am I giving him a choice? In all honesty, Pharma couldn’t stop him if Tarn decided he was coming along whether he liked it or not. It would be as simple as hauling him over his shoulder, kicking down the doors for the rest of his team, and getting off the ship. He’d never stopped and asked for Pharma’s permission to do what he pleased -- not on Delphi and not certainly not here.  
“I’m going to need a medic. And you know you can’t stay here.” Tarn outstretched his servo, waiting. “Our deal still stands as is, and I’ll always collect my due. The Autobots would sooner cut your wings off than let you fly as you should.”

“Your medic. You want to take me on as your medic.” Pharma doubted it would be that simple. Nothing with Tarn ever was. But he was right. Pharma would never regain his reputation. If he wasn’t a traitor, he was a complete victim, weak in the grasp of Decepticons. But leaving everything behind, that...that wasn’t easy, no matter which way he looked at it. Renouncing the Autobot allegiance, that wasn’t so hard. But following Tarn into the losing side of the war, with nothing but his whims and good mood to ensure Pharma’s survival, those didn’t combine into a fantastic outlook either.  
“What if you tire of my skills? I won’t be abandoned again. Not by the Autobots, not by you.”  
He’d sooner rot in some hovel on Cybertron, which was undoubtedly what his future would provide him with if he couldn’t work as a medic.

“Will your skills has a medic disappear? Because otherwise, I think a medic will always be useful.” That wasn’t what Pharma had really meant, but Tarn chose to answer the easy question. The… other details could be handled later, when time wasn’t of essence.  
Another crashing boom echoed around them, and Tarn’s patience ran out. “Pharma, I won’t ask again,” he warned. “Come with me, before I remember I don’t need to ask you to. And hurry up.”

It would have to do, as far as reasoning was concerned. Pharma decided that the unknown was maybe less formidable before Tarn and made his choice. Everything in him roiled, his protocols flaring up in warning that this was not the sane decision, but he made it anyway.  
“Fine. I’m coming with you.” It was done. He was following the monster. Primus preserve his spark. Pharma was long past the point of looking to deities for help though, so he just went as fast as he could with his shot frame, to Tarn’s side. He expected the tankformer wouldn’t be leaving his unit behind.

Tarn noted the damage to Pharma’s frame. He’s not used to pain. It slows him down. So he scooped Pharma up, putting him over his shoulder and striding out of the room, scanning the hall for any threats. None appeared, so Tarn turned to the cell doors that his team was behind.  
An ID scanner, then a physical door. Tarn grabbed one of the dead ‘bots and held them up against it, waiting until the door checked clear before he gave it a kick the crumpled the door inwards. Door 02 held Vos, who was dwarfed by his berth. He hissed in surprise, and his hisses only grew louder and more bewildered as Tarn crushed the controls to the berth, releasing the small gunformer.  
He jerked his helm to the way out. “We’re leaving.”  
Despite the language barrier, Vos got his gist. He scrambled to Tarn’s side, only sparing a brief glance to the medic perched on his shoulder, and they stormed Tesarus and Helex’s cells in much the same manner. The two bigger mecha didn’t have their in-built weaponry, Tarn noticed with dissatisfaction, and Vos’ gun form was stripped down. None of them were kitted for battle, so their escape would be have to about speed, not just killing everyone who stood in their way.  
“Tarn, what’s up with the medic?”  
“Pharma’s coming with us.”  
“We’re on name basis now?”  
Tarn turned so they couldn’t see the wince at his slip. “He’s going to fix us.”  
Tesarus still looked doubtful. “He’s an Autobot.”  
Tarn nudged Pharma. Answer them.

Pharma really didn’t want to. Although he was the one who had repaired what remained of the DJD, he couldn’t look at their faces and think anything more of them than being brainless, murderous cronies that did whatever Tarn bid them to and died whenever Tarn decided they would. They were hardly worthy of names, let alone knowing his reasons for decisions made.  
And yet...Tarn had indicated they were owed an answer. An explanation. Perhaps, a gesture would do.  
Pharma despised pain, but he’d rather not explain his complicated emotional mess to a bunch of brainless followers, so he shifted himself to reach his chest, clawing despite the delicate nature of his servos, prying the Autobot symbol loose and letting it fall to the ground, which was a long way from Tarn’s shoulder.  
“I’m done with the Autobots. They can kiss my aft.”

They all looked at the fallen symbol, then at Pharma again. Vos hissed something.  
“That’s -- okay,” Tesarus conceded, since they’re really didn’t have time for detailed questioning. “I don’t like it, but fine.” The look on all their faces promised that there nonetheless would be some questions for them all, later.  
Tarn wanted to rebuke him for questioning him. But things had... changed. He had changed.  
“Follow me,” he said, and they all fell into order behind him. Tesarus grabbed Vos, putting him on his shoulder like Tarn had done with Pharma. The gunformer was too small to keep up with the strides of the larger mecha, and he’d been the most heavily injured of them all.  
They began to run. They encountered a few Autobots here and there, but Tarn made short work of them with his fists, stopping only long enough to locate their T-cog and yank it out. They then went into his subspace, and the group continued their escape.  
The noises grew louder the further they got from the brig. The hangar was two decks away from their current location and…  
“Of course it’s him,” Tarn said sourly. Up ahead, Overlord was tearing through Autobots, bellowing for Megatron. “At this rate, he’ll ruin all the escape pods.”

It was a bumpy ride, and Pharma felt like he was going to empty his tanks, but for now he concentrated on watching anything but the DJD following Tarn. This was happening. He was leaving, today, right now, rapidly departing by Tarn’s will. It was mad enough to make him sort of giddy, if it weren’t for his energon dripping over Tarn’s tread. The contrast kind of pretty, he thought idly.   
And then. More battle. The noise was deafening and Pharma wanted to scramble away from it. Overlord? That was bad. And good. And suddenly the ship’s shaking made sense. Overlord was alive and attacking and they were in the thick of it. Best thing to do for him was to grip Tarn’s shoulder-treads and hope to Primus he wasn’t going to get shot, or dumped into the middle of a firefight.

“We’ll go around him. Steal one of the ships.”  
It was rudimentary plan, but sometimes simple was for the best. Tarn grabbed the rail, and jumped it, adjusting Pharma so he didn’t hit his helm on his shoulder upon landing. Overlord was too distracted by his fight to notice the escaping DJD members, and that suited Tarn just fine. He hadn’t forgotten the way Overlord had contented himself to watch he and his team fall to the antimatter.  
He was about to get to the pods, when his luck ended. “Tarn!”  
Overlord saw him.  
He only had enough time to toss Pharma away before the Phase Sixer was on him, and the fight that ensued was a brutal flurry of fists, as both mecha grappled and ‘bots rushed out of their way.

Pharma didn’t appreciate being flung around, but in light of seeing Overlord almost up close and personal, he’d take being a ragdoll anyday. Of course, on top of his damaged systems, it didn’t feel too great, but he was in no position to complain.  
He had to get to the ships. And then he had to figure out which one the DJD would take. He lost sight of Vos immediately, Tesarus and Helex were amidst the chaotic fight, dealing with Autobots. Primus, this was a mess.  
Pharma pulled himself to his feet, spotting the entrance to a corridor. That should, theoretically, lead around the massive hangar without him having to cross it on pede, since flying was out of the question. Slowly, painfully, Pharma made his way to it. The Autobots rushing to the hangar ignored him entirely, which suited him just fine. The massive frame of Ultra Magnus nearly knocked Pharma off of his pedes, but he flattened himself to the wall just in time.   
Finally, the other end of the corridor, just meters away. There were the ships. Small vessels, not great for long distance travel, and the shuttles that would be infinitely more suitable. Almost there. He’d just take one. It couldn’t be too difficult to fly, far less intelligent mecha than Pharma could do it, after all. The wall was becoming his closest friend as he leaned against it for one more quick break. His servos shook but he forced them still, and to open for a small welding torch. A tiny one, but it would help close the damn severed line. There was enough time for it now.  
It had him busy enough not to notice the approach of another small troupe of Autobots.

“How the hell did he get out of his -- Pharma!”  
The other ‘bots didn’t stop as they rushed towards the fight, but Ratchet peeled away from the group to check on the flier leaning against the wall. “You need to leave the area, now. Overlord and Tarn are both loose, and you can’t fight. Go to the medibay where the other noncombatants are.”  
His own servos folded into tools as well, as Ratchet leaned in to help Pharma. “When the hell did you get here anyway?”

Pharma let him. Ratchet was such a fool. This was going to be sweet indeed. Two medics worked faster than one, and Pharma’s leaking energon line was welded shut for the moment. The second it was done, the jet jerked back from Ratchet’s touch, turbine whirring online. Oh yes, he could try and transform, but there was no rush now. He missed the two guns he used to have, but since his arrival on the Peaceful Destiny, he’d been disarmed like every other noncombatant mech.  
“Oh you know me, if there’s a commotion, I have to be involved.” Pharma let his servos fold up as he grinned at Ratchet. It was kind of beautiful, the fact that he made this happen. Oh, sure, Overlord was a factor, but Pharma had freed Tarn. Pharma had fixed Tarn, and the DJD. And now, no one could stop them from leaving.  
Especially not Ratchet.  
“Besides, Tarn wouldn’t leave without his medic.”

“Pharma, you’re not talking sense,” Ratchet said. “Did you hit your helm? Tarn is out there, but he’s unarmed. We’ll get him contained. You don’t need to do that anymore.”  
Some sort of reaction to Tarn’s presence? Ratchet mulled it over as he held his servos up. “Come on, Pharma. I’ll take you to the safe zone.” And get you under heavy psychological care because this is ridiculous.

“No, Ratchet,” Pharma pulled his servos back, no longer wanting anything to do with Ratchet’s clumsy touch. He drew himself up, still content to be taller than the other medic. His grin widened, optics flaring with something like mockery because Ratchet didn’t understand.  
“You know, I feel like my previous experiences with Tarn might have escaped your observation, my dear old friend.” He wanted to savour the moment, really, but with the ongoing battle in the hangar, he didn’t have all the time in the universe for it.  
“He never raped me Ratchet. I wanted him. I still do. It was me. How do you think he got out of his restraints? I let him out. Just like I did today. And now, I’m going to be leaving, and you can’t stop me.”

Ratchet wished it didn’t make so much sense. It explained too many things -- how Tarn kept getting out, Pharma’s unwillingness to cooperate, Delphi…  
“I should’ve killed you the moment you stepped into the room on the Necrobot’s planet,” he said, grabbing his gun and pulling it on Pharma in one smooth motion. He aimed right where the damage they’d fixed was. “The plague was one thing. And now this? Tarn? You’re beyond help, Pharma.”  
He squeezed the trigger the same time Tarn was thrown into the hall. The tankformer’s massive frame collided with Ratchet’s sending his shot wide and crushing him under his weight. Overlord looked to follow, before a group of Autobots distracted him.

Tarn’s timing was perfect, no matter how unintentional his interruption had been. Ratchet could rust in pieces for all Pharma cared. Finally, he could move again and he was not slow on his pedes.   
“This way to the ships,” he gestured, if the tankformer didn’t know about the corridor, he sure could see the benefits of it now. Pharma pulled at his arm, though he could in no way, shape or form move the heavy mech if he didn’t want to.   
Vos appeared in the entrance, hissing something that probably meant that they had a ship in their possession. It was time to leave. Pharma transformed after one, last, spiteful glance down at Ratchet.  
“I hope Overlord rips you all to shreds, Ratchet. Farewell, or not.”   
The sleek jet sped off, sweeping by Vos and into the (he had guessed correctly) awaiting shuttle. He didn’t care if Helex and Tesarus looked distinctly unhappy about his presence, he was leaving.


	8. Chapter 8

Tarn  _ hated  _ Overlord.

Each fist driven into his face was a reminder that Overlord really,  _ really  _ deserved to die in an incredibly painful manner, preferably prolonged over several days -- no,  _ weeks _ . If Tarn had all his weapons on him, the fight might’ve turned out differently. But without a fusion cannon, freshly and incompletely repaired, and without even his voice, Tarn had been fighting a losing battle from the start.

Getting thrown like that was a convenient, if not dignified, way to exit the fight and Tarn rose with a groan, feeling aches in plating that’d been gaping just a few weeks earlier. He followed his unit and Pharma with a limp, collapsing against a wall while the hatch shut. Vos was in the helmsman’s chair, spindly limbs sticking out as he quickly learned how to work this new ship. In short order, they were in the air and speeding out of the hangar.

For a while, the only sound was Tarn’s ragged venting.

With a protesting creak from his injured leg, he got up and limped to the captain’s chair. “Report,” he said quietly.

“Er… not much to say,” Helex said, glancing around, “We were in the cell, ‘til you got us out. Fought some ‘bots. Killed a few. And now we’re here.”

Vos spat a derogatory phrase in Primal Vernacular. Without Kaon to translate his words, Tarn could only piece together was little he could understand.

“We’re out?”

_ Hiss. Hissss. _

“Out… but not safe.”

_ Hiss. _

“The Autobots are distracted with Overlord, they won’t be after us yet.”

_ Hiisss. _

“Tracking this ship? That will be a problem, but we can trade it in for a different one. A Neutral outpost wouldn’t care.”

“ _...ffffiiine… _ ” Vos dragged out one of the few words he knew in Neocybex, turning the single syllable into a multi-toned, guttural mess of hisses and growls. Tarn nodded in acceptance, unbothered, and glanced at Pharma. There were still things to be discussed, but not here.

“Report to the medibay,” he said instead, “And check on the crew. Tesarus, stand in for Vos while he’s checked. I’ll go last.”

 

The ‘medibay’ was not far off. There wasn’t a whole lot to this shuttle, just a couple of crew quarters, a storage bay, the medibay, a mess and a bridge. Everything was in close quarters and would be just short of uncomfortable for mecha the size of Helex and Tesarus. That was, not, however, Pharma’s problem. He gathered himself up, helm raised high. He was not their prisoner, nor to be treated like one. He’d do his work, oh yes, of course, and it would be exemplary because that’s what he was. The other DJD members would, hopefully, not disobey Tarn.

“There should be an armory...if you want me to restore the D...the unit to their armed state, I will need someone to find it. You, spindly gunformer; come. I bet you tore open your ventral plating when you started running around. It wasn’t even healed yet.”

Pharma stalked off to the medibay, ready to be of service. On his terms.

 

Helex and Tesarus exchanged unhappy glances, and all three DJD members looked like they wanted to rebel against the medic’s orders. A sharp look from Tarn, however, silenced any protests. It wouldn’t be the last of it, though. As much as they feared and respected Tarn, even they had their limits to what they would accept. An Autobot medic -- former or not -- was firmly in  _ unacceptable _ .

Still, repair was repair. A quick, unspoken competition between the two behemoths decided who would have to go under Pharma first and Helex stepped forward with a sour look.

“Can you even fix my smelter? You’re…”

_ You’re not Nickel  _ went unspoken. “You don’t know any of us, or how we work.”

 

Pharma bristled, but kept himself under control. He looked down the length of his nose at said smelter, something he had personally rendered inoperable when the remains of the DJD had been delivered to his skilled hand.

“I’m the best surgeon Cybertron has ever produced. I put all of you back together when you were nothing but scrap thanks to that antimatter explosion. I know  _ exactly  _ how each of you work.” Pharma was not humble, nor was he subtle. His skill was valuable and the repairs would be lengthy, of course they would. These barely functional frames had gone into combat and emerged much worse. Violent oafs had no idea how long it took to repair such damage.

“Your smelter is the least of my concern. I just have to re-engage the manual override over your initial function of construction and you’ll have use of it again. Now, on the slab,” Pharma transformed his servos into scalpel and lasercutter, surgical lense folding down, “If you please.”

 

Tesarus snorted from where he was camped out in the corner, Vos hunched besides him. Helex got on the slab slowly, just to spite Pharma. They didn’t like him, and they would make it well-known.

“Why are you even here? We’re Decepticons -- you were an  _ Autobot _ . A traitor to your own cause. Why leave the winning side?”

 

“Does it really matter?” Pharma was tired of their questions already. He preferred his patients sedated, silent. Giving him peace to work as he saved their miserable lives. Helex was a massive mech and checking over every part of him would take Pharma a while. The worst part was that in order to repair the smelter, he had to get inside of it. Something he really, really didn’t want to do as long as the mech was conscious, because the second it was fixed, Helex could kill him. Well, he probably could do so already, with his additional limbs and massive frame, but inside of his smelter, it just felt like testing fate.

Pharma’s servos were steadier than his field, thankfully, as he began to scan and analyse the battle damage to Helex’ side. 

 

“Of course it matters,” Helex snapped. “We  _ hunt  _ traitors. You  _ are  _ a traitor, even if it’s not our faction. Traitors can’t be trusted, because if you’re willing to leave the faction you’ve been with for the whole war, why would you leave it for  _ us _ ? And what’s to say you wouldn’t dump us as soon as you can?”

Tension in the room rose a few notches. Tesarus and Vos were both interested in the answer, and Tarn wasn’t there, since he was handling matters on the bridge. Also so he could avoid getting grilled by his unit.

“We can’t keep a medic we can’t trust. So tell us,  _ Pharma _ , why we shouldn’t kill you as soon as you finish repairing us.”

Tarn was a devious coward for leaving him alone with the DJD like this. Pharma welded a little harder, trying not to think of how many ways the three mecha here could kill him. Had he really made the right choice, coming along with Tarn’s offer? Or did he just jump into his own grave?

“It’s...it’s not your decision. Your commander brought me along. My skills are needed.” 

Were they? Wasn’t it just Tarn’s strange fancy that kept Pharma so firmly in his grasp? The danger of his situation was blooming before Pharma’s optics, and all he had were the medical tools his servos transformed into. There was no backing out of it now. His vents flared open to cycle air to his engine. His sparkrate, he could force to slow. He’d worked under pressure before. He could do it again.

 

“We can make it look like an accident. You slipped through an airlock. We got ambushed, and you were killed in the crossfire. Just a little  _ slip _ …”

Helex made a snapping motion with one of his bigger servos. “... and  _ done _ . We’re good at killing, and we’re good enough to make  _ you  _ go away. So try again.”

“How did you convince Tarn to bring you?” Tesarus spoke up this time. He leaned in, with Vos peeking out from under his arm. “He hates Autobots even more than  _ we  _ do. In fact, after Delphi, why’d you follow him?”

 

“I...I didn’t follow, I just made a conscious choice not to be an Autobot,” Pharma grabbed an unyielding piece of shrapnel from Helex’ circuits and yanked it out, starting to feel his field prickle with warning. He didn’t want to tell Tarn’s lackeys that there was an entirely complicated, unsolvable lump of emotions towards Tarn that had the medic choose him over everything he knew. He didn’t want to explain that he feared, hated, admired and loved the mere idea of Tarn. It was a hideous mess and no one could understand it, least of all a couple of mecha looking for an excuse to kill him.

“The Autobots left me to die on Delphi. They never cared that it was in the middle of D... _ your  _ territory. They didn’t care to understand anything, and now I don’t feel  _ inclined _ to lend my services to them anymore. Isn’t that enough reason to leave? Tarn knows I am the best medic he’ll ever find. I suspect he wouldn’t write my death off as an accident.”

 

“I don’t care if you’re the best damn medic in the universe,  _ traitor _ . You’re awfully convinced that Tarn even  _ cares  _ about you. You’re convenient, but how convenient are you if we find another medic -- someone who wasn’t an Autobot? Then you’re just a spare that we don’t need.”

They knew only bits about Delphi. They knew Tarn had some kind of deal going on with the clinic there -- it explained all the T-cogs he always procured even when hunting was slow -- and that was why they weren’t allowed to kill the traitor that was  _ right there _ . It made sense, even if Tesarus grumbled that Autobots were for killing, not deal-making.

But seeing Pharma here and now, hearing him talk, made them wonder what else had been going on at Delphi.

“You hate the Autobots. But that doesn’t mean you’re our side.”

 

Oh it was like talking to brain module damaged mecha. Pharma didn’t want to expose what else happened at Delphi, what brought him and Tarn closer together than either of them were comfortable with. Would it even sate the curiousity of these three? Would they even believe him?

“If it wasn’t for me, Tarn would still be locked in his cell and so would you. I’ve done more to free you than any of you. Doesn’t that prove enough to you? Nevermind that I saved your sparks.” Pharma looked up from his welding and into the smelter. His tanks rolled violently and he knew he couldn’t possibly go in there, at least not without Tarn’s presence. Again, he fervently wished to have a private comm line with the tank.

“I wonder if you would be asking me all of these questions if your commander was present.”

 

“I wonder if you could mouth off if he was here,” Helex shot back and a smaller servo grabbed Pharma’s wrist. Injured and half-dead, he was still strong enough to crush it if he wanted to. “I’m sure you can fix us without your wings. And since you’re such a good medic, you don’t even  _ need  _ this servo anyway.”

With a cruel crunch, Helex snapped Pharma’s wrist. He left the servo itself alone, but it hung limply from metal that was crushed halfway up to his forearm. “You’re here because Tarn decided you were useful. You’re healthy because  _ we  _ decide you’re better whole than in pieces. Keep your sharp little mouth shut and do your job before I start taking you apart.”

 

Pharma killed his own vocalizer before the scream of pain emerged. As it were, his EM-field spasmed briefly and his optics flared, but that was all the signs of pain he’d grant to his demented patients. His limbs were not particularly strong, just forged for what he was intended to, not to resist the whims and mercies of brutish mecha like this. 

It was a cruel caution that kept his servo intact, but that didn’t mean the rest of his arm was immune to pain. His wrist was only marginally less delicate than his servo, and Helex had just snapped every powerline connected to it. Pharma’s servo hung limply, uselessly and the medic cradled it with his other hand. It would be a painful fix, but it was the shock of it happening that had Pharma’s spark whirl madly.

“How am I supposed to do my job if you break my tools?!” he couldn’t stop himself from lashing out, verbally at the very least. These mecha didn’t deserve his expertise.

 

“A good medic should work with what he has,” Helex replied, relishing Pharma’s shocked reaction. “And an even  _ better  _ one would know when to keep his mouth shut. You seem to have the misconception that you’re irreplaceable and that we can’t touch you. Welcome to reality,  _ doctor _ .”

Helex leaned back, pillowing his helm with his big servos. His smaller ones rested near his abdomen in silent threat.  

“Well? Get to work.”

Vos was the first one to laugh. Tesarus joined soon after.

“Let’s have a bet on our medic. He’ll snap within the month.”

“A month is too generous,” Helex said, watching Pharma cradle his wrist, “I say two weeks, and he’s gone.”

“ _...threeeee… mooonthsss…” _

“Deal,” Helex confirmed. “Don’t disappoint me now, Pharma.”

 

Pharma glared at the mech, and said nothing. Keeping his mouth shut? Something he was going to have to learn, it seemed. And yet it wasn’t right. He wasn’t just a medic, he was the best medic, he was Tarn’s medic, he was...

Oh what was he thinking? Tarn wasn’t going to hold his servos over Pharma from his own team. These mecha were important enough to Tarn to leave them their t-cogs. And Tarn was always so quick to threaten something physical onto Pharma himself. He probably would let them play with the medic as they pleased, and they knew it. He was a toy. He was a fool. 

Pharma tucked his limp servo to his side and tried to resume his work, patching up blaster-holes, repairing damaged circuitry, reinstating weaponized protocols. Helex was a big mech with a lot of damage but Pharma managed all of him. Except the smelter.

“I’m not getting in you.” he stated with a marginally less acidic glare. He was furious and terrified, a new combination of his overly active fears.

 

“Thank Primus for small mercies. I  _ don’t  _ want you in me.” Helex checked his frame, suspicious of any tampering. “We’ll find someone else to manage the actually  _ important  _ parts. I’m done. Tesarus, your turn.”

Helex moved off the slab without waiting for Pharma’s approval, and he lumbered over to Vos, sitting on the bench in the medibay. Tesarus took his spot with a grunt.

“Stick even a digit in the grinder, and I’ll kill you. Don’t talk, just fix.”

Helex may have been more inclined to provoke Pharma but Tesarus made his displeasure known in other ways. Tarn wasn’t here for them to take their frustration out on, so Pharma would do. He was an outsider to their close-knit group, some unwanted addition that Tarn had added without consulting any of  _ them  _ first. That wasn’t  _ right _ .

 

Pharma huffed, but said nothing. This one was even bigger and he could easily just roll off of the slab and crush Pharma beneath his weight, never mind what his servos could do. The jet began his work anew, his field drawn in tight, his wings tense. Threatened didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling, but he could let himself be absorbed by his work, no matter how much he wanted to cut some major fuel lines in this mech. He couldn’t repair everything, and the grinder would continue to be inactive, because he wasn’t going to go near it. Pharma had to walk around Tesarus to access his wounds, and his work was slow due to his useless servo.

“Move your arm.” he commanded after several minutes of silence. He needed to get closer, even if he didn’t want to. Tesarus had a massive hole under his arm, exposing a lot of delicate circuitry. Pharma, with only one servo, cut right through a sensitive cluster.

 

Pharma missed getting a hole punched through him by only inches. Tesarus snarled with pain, and a massive fist flew by the medic to sink into the wall of the medibay. He looked like he wanted to try again, this time aiming at Pharma, and only the need to be repaired was holding him back, along with the uncertainty of what Tarn might do if he came in and saw the medic he’d brought was dead.

“Fumbling incompetent glitch,” he bit out as he extracted his fist with a clatter of falling metal shards. “I’ve seen non-forged medics do a better job in worse conditions.”

 

“I doubt it.” Pharma seethed, well aware that punch could have nearly killed him if it hit him instead of the wall. But it proved that these three were not so ready to kill him as they claimed. Posturing fools. Pharma continued, the cluster loose now as he cut it away completely. It was too damaged to repair and Tesarus could do without it, no matter if it hurt or not.

His servo transformed again, and the acrid smell of burned energon and metal filled the room. 

 

The tension was just a bit higher now. Helex wasn’t willing to heckle Pharma while he was working on someone other than him, but Vos certainly wasn’t holding back. The spindly mech crept over, reminiscent of a spider with how he moved, until he was entrenched firmly in Pharma’s space.

“ _ Weaaar… myyyy… faaaaaace… _ ”

He offered Pharma his face, its spikes jutting out menacingly.

 

Pharma had pulled his hand out of Tesarus as soon as Vos approached him. When the mech had been unconscious in the brig, he’d seemed far less menacing. But now? Pharma’s wings fluttered and he moved back, until he couldn’t back off anymore thanks to the damaged wall.

“Get that away from me!” 

He didn’t have anything to threaten with, no leverage in this situation. 

 

Vos wasn’t deterred by the poor reaction. He crept closer, still offering his mask. “ _ Weeeeeeaaar… iiiit… “ _

“Vos, he stills needs to fix me,” Tesarus commented dryly in the background, “You can terrorize him  _ after  _ he’s done. Put your face back on before he faints.”

“Don’t want to offend his delicate sensibilities, after all.”

“Helex, you’re really not helping.”

Vos looked put out, but he returned his face back to its rightful place on his… under-face. He retreated a little, so that he was perched on Tesarus’ legs, watching Pharma. “ _ Joooooob… _ ” he hissed, pointing at Tesarus.  _ Get to work, slacker. _

 

“I was working, before you so rudely threatened me.” Pharma snapped, inching back towards Tesarus. He wanted this to be over, he wanted to be alone and contemplate whether or not he’d really gone with the right decision here. He somehow doubted that a few gentle moments with Tarn could be worth dealing with all of this.

 

With no more interruptions from Vos -- though he seemed inclined to lean in and sniff judgmentally whenever Pharma’s servo wasn’t as steady as it should be -- Tesarus’ repairs was finished quickly. There was no thanks from the mech himself, of course, and Vos went under the medic soon after.

His repairs took longer, since his frame was much smaller and thus trickier than the two giants, and both mecha refrained from mocking Pharma so he could concentrate. Vos refused to let Pharma work on his actual gun kibble for the same reasons his teammates had stopped the medic, so he was only patched up and welded together before he was free to leave. By then, Tarn finally came back from his business on the bridge and his unit shuffled out obediently. There were startled looks when they saw his lack of a mask, and Tesarus looked like he wanted to say something, before Tarn quelled him with a look.

It was only putting off the inevitable, of course, but no one said anything.

Tarn didn’t speak until he was sure his unit was out of earshot; they were too smart to ever try eavesdropping, though any carelessness was fair game. He jerked his chin at Pharma’s wrist.

“What happened?”

 

“Your team happened.” Pharma tried, he really did, to keep the acid in his tone down to a minimum. He knew Tarn’s temper and he didn’t want to play any games with it, but Tarn’s absence had, quite literally, gotten him hurt.

The servo would need tending to before he could work on Tarn. The pain was making his functional servo shaky, and he was not going to risk doing shoddy work on the DJD’s commander.

“Give me a minute.” Pharma sat down, sliding his turbine down the wall. The loss of energon from earlier, the tension, the fear, it had sapped his energy reserves fiercely. Opening his wrist was nothing short of agony and Pharma winced as he drew out all four of his power lines, pathetically crushed and broken by Helex’ grip.

 

“They did this?” It was a rhetorical question. Of course it was them, there was nothing else that could’ve done this. Tarn moved closer, until he could see the damage done. It wasn’t as bad as Pharma’s reaction made it seem -- it’d only been crumpled up. They hadn’t gone for the obvious target, just close enough to spook Pharma.

Adding that on Pharma’s most glaring flaw, and it painted a reasonable picture of Pharma being Pharma and his unit reacting accordingly.

So Tarn’s irritation was unwarranted.

It was, he reasoned, because they’d gone and dealt punishment themselves rather than refer to Tarn. It was a breach of policy and hierarchy, never mind the fact that he’d allowed it when the DJD gained a new member. It was Pharma, so it was different, of course.

Tarn made a note to gently remind his team that Pharma was under  _ his  _ direct supervision, not theirs, and that in the interests of a comfortable time together, they should just tell him when Pharma needed to be disciplined. Otherwise things might get a little unfortunate, and no one wanted  _ that _ .

“Let me see it,” he ordered.

 

The jet hesitated, before entrusting his damaged limb into Tarn’s care. Whether or not that kind of trust was warranted was up to Tarn. Pharma didn’t have anything left up his proverbial sleeves. He had chosen his side. 

His field was still completely pulled in, spark thudding a tight little rhythm. Was this about to be his every day life? Fear, threats and broken limbs? He should have predicted it. He shouldn’t have followed Tarn. That much was obvious. Pharma looked away. Tarn’s face didn’t make this any easier on him.

“Am I just your toy, or also theirs?”

“I wasn’t aware you were anyone’s toy,” he replied, inspecting the injury. Broken lines, cracked plating. Too small to be Tesarus’, so it had to be Helex. There’d be  _ words _ . “Is that the role I gave you, or one you assigned yourself?”

Nothing major. Tarn’s servo wandered down to Pharma’s, tracing nonsensical patterns on the blue metal. “I had thought you’d be smart enough to figure out how to navigate their moods. You certainly seemed to manage mine. Not everyone is as tolerant of your sharp glossa as I am. We’re not Autobots, who will cower at harsh words. Decepticons retaliate, Pharma, and they do it  _ hard _ . I can make them stop hurting you, but I can’t force them to respect you. You earn that yourself.”

Tarn looked into Pharma’s fearful optics. “Was I wrong to think my medic could handle his troubles on his own?”

 

Pharma held the gaze for a moment, before dropping his optics down to his broken wrist. Tarn had nerve, to put the blame on him instead of the brutish monsters he called his soldiers. Or unit. Assassins. All of these mashed into three unsavoury glitches.

“I liked them better when they were unconscious husks on my slabs.” He knew he’d have to watch himself, but Pharma couldn’t picture getting even a wink of recharge in the presence of such hostile companions.

“If I at least knew they won’t kill me, I suppose I could learn to...read their moods.” He had to, if he wanted to make this bearable. He was Tarn’s medic. Unfortunately though, Tarn came with lingering attachments.

“They won’t let me fix their altmodes or their...overly large orifices. And I can’t...I need to self-repair and recharge, Tarn. Please.”

Again, he was putting more of himself forward than he had intended. The least he could hope for was a smidgen of Tarn’s protection.

 

“They won’t kill you,” he confirmed, “Not unless you try to kill them first. As long as you don’t provoke them, they won’t bother you. I’ll speak to them about repairs and they’ll report in for rearming.”  _ Or else. _

The second part of Pharma’s confession was more vulnerable than he expected. Tarn rest his vocalizer with a click, trying to see any deceit on Pharma’s face.

“You can repair yourself here, now. And you will be staying with me, in the captain’s quarters.”

 

Gratitude washed over Pharma’s field. How low he had fallen that the thought of recharging in Tarn’s presence was a comfort to him now? 

He met those odd optics again and nodded. He would have to work on rebuilding the walls he kept letting Tarn shatter, or risk himself becoming unbearably attached to this fanatic mech. Or was he already beyond the point of no return?

“Do you have any immediate injuries that need me?” With his fears assuaged, he could at least do some more rudimentary work.

 

“It can wait until you’ve repaired yourself. Then you can start on my leg. Overlord ripped out a strut. There’s a few dents that need popping out, and a minor rupture to weld.” Tarn walked around the slab to grab Pharma, cradling him in his arms as he went to sit on the slab.

Good thing there were no immediate damages on his waist. Tarn set the medic on his lap before leaning back, drawing up a knee to steady Pharma. He rested a servo on Pharma’s back, occasionally petting down his turbine and sliding digits in so he could play with the small blades. He hummed the Suite, waiting for Pharma to get on with his self-repair.

Not that he would mind if it took a little longer. Tarn didn’t get many chances to simply touch Pharma like this, and he appreciated the opportunity here. Pharma was a lovely mech, by all means, and was forged with an optic for physical perfection. It showed in his long legs, the delicate wings, how his fingers tapered out. Tarn had always been partial to beauty.


	9. Chapter 9

Pharma was very still when Tarn picked him up so easily. When the mech settled on the slab though, seemingly perfectly content to be a comfortable resting place for Pharma, the medic relaxed. At least enough to appreciate the position he was in. Stretching out his long limbs, he arranged himself to have his useless servo in front of him, propped up and easy enough to reach with his good hand. Delicate repairs required concentration, and with Tarn quite literally providing the safest comfort Pharma could have, the medic began. Like this, he could forget the three brutes that wanted him dead. He could forget that he had propelled himself into this hell by choice. He could lean his helm against Tarn’s chestplate and watch the tiny sparks fly off of his wrist.

Tarn’s voice was hauntingly beautiful, even without the use of his talent. Pharma had always thought so, even when that voice had promised him nothing but death and despair. There were a lot contradictions about Tarn that Pharma had time to contemplate. The dark beauty of his eloquence, his fine tastes juxtaposed with his fanatic dedication to the ridiculously poor ideals of the Decepticons...his soft touch and his terrible wrath. 

Pharma’s field opened further with every note hummed. It reached for Tarn, carefully offering to thread together.

The offer was accepted. Tarn’s field was open and all-encompassing, swallowing up Pharma’s with a greed he carefully didn’t show. His touch remained light, straying up to Pharma’s helm that Tarn stroked with silent care. His claws drifted over the back, then over the chevron, silently contemplating the contours.

All too quickly, he remembered that they were quite alone, and Pharma was right here…

He didn’t suggest the idle thought that wandered through his processor, though his field darkened to reflect it.

His servo went to rest on Pharma’s thigh, warm and heavy.

 

He didn’t have to voice his thoughts. Pharma knew Tarn’s pleasures well enough to know what that kind of flux in a field meant, and the touch on his thigh was promising indeed. Pharma suppressed the need to smirk. At least his beauty still had impact on one mech in his vicinity. He better hurry with his self-repair. With just a couple of comfortable, quiet minutes, he’d been able to do a lot. The plating would have to be repaired at some other point, it was more or less cosmetic to repair the crumpled metal. But he had his servo back, and that felt a lot better than anything else.

Making use of his freshly reactivated servo, he laid it on Tarn’s shoulder tread, tracing the grooves with slim fingers. His field was utterly encompassed by Tarn, and his frame quite comfortable under his touch.

Tarn had always been tactile, but each of his touches meant something different. This one? One of Pharma’s favourites to handle.

“The door is not locked...” He muttered, very quietly.

 

“You underestimate me if you think any of them would disobey me.” Tarn drummed the tips of his claws on Pharma’s thigh gently, still holding his helm in the other. Pharma was prettier like this, he mused, without the harshness of a sneer making his face harder. He was malleable as putty and happy to be so, and Tarn’s field wrapped around the emotions from Pharma’s tightly.

“How is your servo?” he asked, as if his servo wasn’t already wandering up higher. “You didn’t take very long with it. Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?”

 

“I’ve fixed most of it. The servo wasn’t damaged, just...all the lines were snapped.” Pharma was particularly aware of Tarn’s travelling claw and it sent heat through his frame despite the general lack of energy. He no longer questioned his near automatic arousal at Tarn’s touch. Why should he keep faulting himself for something that felt so good when it was rewarded?

Pharma wasn’t a self-loathing mess. He was a master at shifting the blame elsewhere, and this, this was part of his addiction to Tarn. His field fluttered with anticipation.

“It could have been worse. If my servo was crushed...I wouldn’t have the equipment to fix it here.”

 

“I would have punished them if they broke your servo. There’s a limit to what is allowed. We are already under enough stress -- self destruction would entirely ruin us.”

Tarn slid a claw just under the seam between Pharma’s hipplate and thigh, tracing the sensitive circuitry he could feel there. He followed the natural curve down, before stopping just short and returning back to the top to begin to process all over again. The last time had been mutually enjoyable, but it had lacked a certain something.

He looked down to the excitement flitting across Pharma’s face.

It was the sense of power. The control. The gratification he got when he proved himself capable of twisting Pharma any way he wanted, be it mindless terror or mindless pleasure. Tarn had lost himself there, when he’d taken Pharma against the wall of his cell. Now, however, he no longer had those shackles. He could return to his favorite past-time of seeing how much he could push Pharma and then going beyond that.

 

Pharma squirmed, ever so slightly, under the sharp touch. It was pleasant, of course, but it could turn to pain just as easily. It wouldn’t be a new thing for Tarn to make him toe the line of pain and pleasure, just for the tank’s amusement. And still, Pharma thrilled for it. He didn’t dare move more, though he resumed his stroking of the grooves on Tarn’s treads. His field was entirely in Tarn’s possession, and even if he tried, he couldn’t pull up his snide attitude here and now. Instead, his helm leaned into the tankformer, face pressed into strong neckcables. Would he punished if he were to kiss them? Pharma didn’t take the risk, content to let Tarn touch him as he pleased. His panel was already pinging in question, but he kept it closed for now. Better to let the tankformer earn it.

 

Tarn moved slowly, wasting no moves as he traced the line down once more before shifting to Pharma’s inner thighs. He found the seams there with the ease of long familiarity and guided Pharma’s legs open with a firm push. He traced glyphs down the curve of his raised leg, first the glyphs for Decepticon, then for Tarn.

After all, Pharma never belonged to the Autobots anyway.

He wasn’t going to ask Pharma to open up, not like last time. That had been a slip on his part, giving Pharma the illusion of choice like that. With the way Tarn intended to go about this, there would never be a choice but completely and utter surrender from Pharma in every aspect.

So he purred, deep inside his chest, as he played along the lines of Pharma’s legs and hips, never staying in one place for too long. He allowed a few light brushes against his panel, once to trace his designation on it again, and another to scratch down where Tarn knew the metal parted to reveal Pharma’s array.

 

Pharma was lucid enough to follow the traced patterns. He suppressed a shudder at their meaning. Decepticon...it would never be something he could willingly associate himself with. Those ideals would never be his, no matter if he didn’t feel any more allegiance to the Autobots. Tarn’s designation though...he could agree with. Oddly enough. Tarn’s possessiveness always made him preen, physically or mentally and this time was no different. He surprised himself by how genuinely he wanted that to mean something.

Still, this was not the time to think about it. His array was already warm, his valve constricting with want beneath the cover. Not yet. He held himself shut, even if he was getting more than a little damp.

“Tarn...” he purred into the neckcables, nuzzling his pretty faceplate against them.

 

The sound was one more point on Tarn’s side of the metaphorical chalkboard, another small victory. He felt a flush of pleasure at the plea but refused to relent. His digits moved away from Pharma’s panel and back to drifting in and out of his seams.

While that happened, Tarn shifted his servo from Pharma’s helm to his face. He ran his thumb along the high cheeks, down the straight nose, then over the swell of his bottom lip. He mapped out Pharma’s jaw before shifting back to his mouth again, claws curling over the part of his mouth with greedy insistence. Unspoken, as always, but deliberate in intention.

Tarn would make no demands. No orders. Pharma would come to him of his own free will, until he had nothing more to give.

 

The fleeting touches were driving Pharma mad with impatience. His legs were already open, inviting, his panel hot and growing uncomfortably wet. And yet, Tarn would not give him an order. He was waiting, and Pharma would have to commit himself to the experience if he hoped for pleasure. The claws against his lips were careful, even if they were insistent. Pharma didn’t resist his urges anymore, placing a soft kiss of obedience against them whilst his panel slid away slowly. At least he could try not to look like a completely wanton glutton for Tarn’s touch.

The cool air against his array had him shudder. 

 

Even faced with the temptation, Tarn didn’t immediately jump to his valve. He decided to take his sweet time to it instead, taking frequent stops and departures from his path to seemingly occupy himself with another section of Pharma’s legs.

He pushed one digit past Pharma’s lips, passing his dentae to rest on his glossa, the sharp tip resting on the soft metal. The heat rising from Pharma’s frame was even greater inside his mouth, and Tarn held back a shudder. His purring fell down a note, the vibrations trembling through his plating. The room shrank down to just the two of them, where each sound Pharma made was the most important thing.

It seemed ages had passed before he finally reached Pharma’s valve. He ran his index finger down the lining, feeling the softness, before dipping the tip between them. Tarn barely brushed the entrance before he was back up, circling the anterior node contemplatively. He left tickling little touches on it, avoiding direct stimulation.

 

Pharma twitched with impatience. Tarn’s touches felt tentative, but he knew the tank was teasing him. How long the jet was able to resist would be a matter of his own need for satisfaction. Tarn was playing a new and yet old kind of game with him. The claw in his mouth became his focus, the only part of Tarn he could influence right now, in his position. So Pharma ran his glossa over it, softly, well aware of how easily this could hurt him if Tarn applied just a little pressure.

His valve ached with emptiness, wanting to trap Tarn’s servo and ride it to pleasant oblivion. 

But right now, he had to make do with just Tarn’s claw against his glossa. Pharma sucked greedily at it. 

 

While Tarn’s servos were nowhere near as sensitive as Pharma’s, he still purred at the feeling, optics dimming. He decided to be a little kinder, and pressed his thumb to Pharma’s anterior node, rubbing concentric circles over it. Briefly, Tarn wondered if it was possible to drive Pharma to an overload with just his node and nothing in his valve.

He pinched the node, warming up to the idea. It was an interesting prospect, one that boded further… work. Pushing another digit into Pharma’s mouth so no sounds could escape him, Tarn continued to roll the node between his thumb and index finger, watching Pharma’s face for guidance.

 

The jet murmured against the thick claws in his mouth, but no sound escaped his lips. His optics dimmed and flared with the heavy stimulation, hips twitching and aching to move and force Tarn’s hand into him. But to no avail. His field fluttered, practically begged for more without any words forming between them at all. This pleasure was a new, sweet kind of torture, as Pharma felt his charge building with no crest in sight.

The medic’s slim blue servos slid over Tarn’s front, trying to find a hold.

He felt the desperation rising in Pharma and Tarn chose to feed fuel into the fire. He chuckled lowly as his digits moved faster, pressed a little harder, coincidentally keeping Pharma’s hips down so Tarn’s servo wouldn’t get dislodged. Pharma was dripping now and too far gone to care as droplets slid down his legs and onto Tarn. As Tarn’s digits danced over his node, they grew slick with the pearly fluid.

Dragging his digit over the node, Tarn timed it to match the slow move of the digits in Pharma’s mouth. He was careful, so he didn’t cut into anything by accident, but each press of his servo came with a push into his mouth, slow enough to let Pharma adjust.

 

The dual sensations were new, but good. Pharma let Tarn move as he pleased and he adjusted. There were claws in two of his most sensitive internal parts, short of his servos which lay uselessly against Tarn’s thick chestplate armor. The medic lost a little of his attention from the claw in his mouth as Tarn’s other servo was brushing against all the right places. He wasn’t just a little wet, he was dripping. And he couldn’t find it in himself to be ashamed. He should be. He was splayed, wide open on Tarn’s lap, hoping that the tankformer would give him all the pleasure he promised. Pharma moaned, muffled by Tarn’s hand, servos grabbing tightly. His grip would never be strong enough to dent warframe armor, but he needed something to steady him. His spark pulsed in time with Tarn’s movements, Pharma’s very being craving more, more of all of this.

 

Reaching down, Tarn tried to draw on his talent again. It was there and he used it lightly, just enough to nudge at Pharma’s spark, which Tarn could feel fluttering like a trapped bird in a cage. His purring turned to humming, falling into the familiar notes of the Suite, and it was all laced with the power of his talent, urging Pharma’s spark into feeling more, feeling deeper.

Pressing down, Tarn finally ceased teasing to touch Pharma in earnest. He still refused to penetrate Pharma, but no longer let his digits wander away.

 

With the familiar pull on his spark, Pharma didn't stand much of a chance of resisting. And in this instance, he didn't mind at all. He gave himself over to Tarn’s presence, to his control over the entire situation. His frame shuddered fully, from his helm over his back strut all the way down to his pedes. A heavy grunt against the hand clamped on his mouth and the medic mewled. 

This, he could get used to. This use of Tarn’s talents was the sweet culmination of all of his attention on Pharma. And the jet sucked it all up with eager valve.

 

Success bolstered him, and Tarn pushed on, edging in a little more of his talent as he continued to hum. Pharma was getting close, he could tell, and it wouldn’t take more than another small push before he fell over the cusp. He could feel how much Pharma was leaking, the subtle trembling in his limbs as he sank into the pleasure Tarn offered.

His servo moved down from his node and a little deeper into his valve, finding the first ring of calipers within Pharma. Tarn slid in two digits, feeling out where the nodes were inside and pushing the calipers apart, stretching Pharma. He wasn’t in deep -- only a little bit past the rim -- but he could feel all the tension winding in Pharma, building up to something greater.

Tarn pressed against a cluster of nodes close to his rim, feeling each individual one within the silky mesh.

 

It wasn’t the same as impaling himself on Tarn’s massive spike, but Pharma didn’t have the mental capacity to compare it right now. Tarn’s slow pressing him towards an overload was mind-blowing, frustrating and delightful at the same time. Only this mech could win Pharma over by denying him so much. The noises muffled by Tarn’s servo grew more demanding and pitiful, Pharma’s optics cycling offline so they wouldn’t start sparking with unreleased charge. Even though his frame was lodged tightly in place, Pharma tried. His very valve calipers tried to clasp onto Tarn, gaining any sort of friction, craving the feeling of being full.

He couldn’t take much more of this and when Tarn traced his nodes, Pharma wailed into his first overload.

 

Pharma’s cries threatened filter out around his digits, until Tarn pulled them out and pressed his palm over his mouth, muffling him. They were still there, but muted, and Tarn dragged it out as he hummed, pushing Pharma’s spark to prolong the overload a few seconds more, beyond the natural crest and descent so Pharma would be suspended.

The eager clenching around his digits -- still so shallow and only two -- made Tarn’s mouth twitch up into a smirk, and he obliged Pharma, pushing in while he was still in the grips of overload. Transfluid flowed freely around his servo, puddling onto the slab, and charge crackled down from Pharma and into Tarn. His internal temperature rose in reply, interested pings coming from his array, but Tarn ignored it as he focused on Pharma’s reactions. As pleasurable as it would be to indulge himself, he’d just lose control again and seeing Pharma this undone, this raw was something he couldn’t pass up, not even for interface.

He nuzzled Pharma lazily, encouraging the last bits of charge out as he parted his digits, opening Pharma up some more. He could feel the nodes inside him in greater detail like this and took full advantage of the situation, pressing against each new cluster he located while watching Pharma with avid, hungry optics.

 

If Pharma thought that one overload would satisfy Tarn’s need to see him come undone, he was sorely, happily mistaken. His spark had pulsed the overload charge for a considerable extension thanks to Tarn’s talent and the medic’s frame shook with the sustained effort of keeping himself from consistently wailing and whining. There was no other way to handle what Tarn lathered him with. This much sweet pleasure was definitely on the cusp of being painful. 

Another moaned plea of Tarn’s name and Pharma was nothing but liquid in Tarn’s grasp. Only light twitches could respond to the continued exploration of the claws in his valve. Pharma couldn't bring himself to do anything but hum in lazy encouragement. He couldn't remember the last time he had given himself so entirely into the care of another.

 

Tarn dragged his digits against the walls of Pharma's valve as he slowly dragged it out, pulling out long enough to admire his limited view. Then a third digit joined the rest, stretching the flier as Tarn shifted him around so that Pharma lay on his back on Tarn's chest. 

_ Second time _ , Tarn thought to himself as he tried to see how much Pharma could take, digits wriggling around inside him. They should be doing something else -- productive, worthwhile things -- but Tarn's own greed had waylaid them again. Pharma hadn't even gotten around to fixing him yet, and by the looks of it, he wasn't anywhere near ready to be professional.

Pharma moaned behind his servo again, and Tarn's meager critique of his own self-control melted away. This was the perk of their deal, and Pharma  _ did _ deserve something nice after facing down his unit alone. 

His vents clicked on, filling the room with their low whirr. With his optics offline, Tarn could sense each desperate little flitter of Pharma's spark and the sensation of the soft mesh under his friction pads. The tiny components under his digits were terribly reactive, twitching and tightening whenever Tarn did something new. A careful scrape of his claws drew shivers. A hard press against nodes got clenching. Transfluid gushed around his servo, warm and sticky, and Tarn wondered what it might taste like.

 

There were no ends to the heights of pleasure Tarn was inspiring in him. Pharma always knew the mech was tactile, but this was taking on entirely new dimensions of patience and fascination. Whatever Tarn was getting out of doing this, Pharma had no grasp on. His spark was spasming, both in delight and protest, and his array was entirely over-sensitized. There were no thick, segmented plates to grind himself against, just claws that could be dangerous but proved entirely clever in drawing surges from his nodes. Pharma wanted to move, he wanted to stare at Tarn’s optics and try to guess at whether or not this was good for just him, or if they were both embarking on some sort of sensual epic together. It felt good, whatever it was. Good. That word barely encompassed what Pharma was feeling, a fluctuating degree of sensation that was almost too much to bear under the circumstances.

 

Whenever Tarn offered his digits, Pharma’s valve clasped desperately at them, as if it alone could somehow persuade them to stay, to grow numerous and filling. 

The flier’s thighs shook with the effort of not moving, even though Pharma wanted to clench them around Tarn’s servo and ride those fingers into a wondrous oblivion.

 

Eventually, Tarn decided to take pity on Pharma. Or maybe it was the opposite, since he was taking his digits out and this time, it wasn't to add another one.

"No loud noises," he murmured, "or I will stop everything."

Assured with his warning, he removed the servo on Pharma's mouth. Tarn brought his fluid-covered digits up, examining the pearly sheen as thin streaks of it travelled down his palm. Curiosity and a healthy dose of arousal made him bring it to his mouth, where he licked one digit. The taste was on the tangy side of neutral, with minimal aftertaste.

Well. At least taste wouldn't deter him if he ever chose to engage in that particular activity.

" _ Tell me what you want, _ " he said lowly, his talent making his voice vibrate gently. Tarn moved onto the next digit as he waited, putting on a show even when he chose to stop.

 

The threat was uncalled for, really. Pharma watched Tarn examine his hand, and when the mech had the nerve to taste the thick liquid clinging to it, Pharma whimpered. Not loud enough to be heard through the thick doors of the medibay, but the jet was prone to being very vocal in his pleasures. He’d just have to disengage his vocalizer and be silent if he wanted Tarn to treat him further.

What did he want? For Tarn to get on with it. To fill him and let him feel what he did to the mech. But then, the lewd thoughts of Tarn’s glossa pushing into him ensnared Pharma’s throat. His vents were louder than his voice, furiously trying to keep the forged frame cooled.

“I...” he needed to push his brain module into functionality and thankfully, it was still capable of recovery. The jet took a few moments to unwind himself from the position he was in, now turning to straddle Tarn properly. He shimmied on top of the thank’s heavy plating until his uncovered array rested on a bump above Tarn’s own.

“Give me your servo. Please.” the plea was an afterthought tucked on for good measure, because Pharma may as well melt himself down if he couldn’t get what he wanted right now. As the tank complied, Pharma adjusted him to offer three of his thick claws for what the jet had in mind. Pharma began to moan, but killed his vocalizer halfway through, silently listening to the wet sound of Tarn’s fingers being pushed deeply into him of his own volition.

 

It might have been the fact that Pharma no longer pretended to dislike what they were doing, like he used to, or the fact that he’d actually  _ asked  _ and then  _ arranged it  _ himself rather than wait for Tarn to do it for him. Before, he’d always been happy to lay back and let Tarn do the lion’s share of the work, seemingly pleased when his only job was to show pleasure.

It was… new?

But not entirely unwelcome. Pharma made a fine sight like this, stripped of his modesty. Tarn admired the sight of the frame as it shuddered under the weight of pleasure, Pharma too caught up in everything to act like touching Tarn was a shameful act. For that, Tarn let Pharma take the lead, keeping his servo still and stiff so Pharma would actually have to  _ move  _ if he wanted to feel anything.

There was something comfortably familiar about letting someone else take the lead and returning to his place as servant -- not that this would ever end in Tarn submitting to Pharma.  _ That  _ was beyond even his flexible limits.

 

Pharma wasn’t used to interfacing so...actively anymore. He had not had the pleasure with anyone besides Tarn in years. Not that the tankformer needed to know about that, but the choices at Delphi had been severely limited and definitely unsatisfactory.  But the jet didn’t want to think about that unpleasant stretch of time now. Not when Tarn’s hand was finally giving him the satisfaction he craved. The digits were thick enough to apply pressure to his calipers and his nodes and the flier shuddered, servos on Tarn’s shoulders as he moved his hips, turbine on, vents cycling. 

He couldn’t think about how much he was in control right now. That would be something to contemplate when Tarn wasn’t allowing him the run of his frame. Tarn’s face...his scarred but somehow handsome face, it was right there, Pharma could stare at it all he wanted to, and he did, not breaking contact even as his frame took and took what Tarn offered without lifting a servo.

 

The moment stretched on, as the two of them stared at each other silently. No noise escaped their mouths, but the whirr of vents and the increasingly wet sounds between them was enough. For that moment, Tarn was no longer thinking about the intricate relationship he and Pharma had built out of mutual hatred, lust, and hundreds of other emotions, or about what his opinion of Pharma and his myriad idiosyncrasies was.

Here and now, he laid back, enraptured by Pharma.

 

Pharma knew how to present his frame to look enticing, but he was riding Tarn for his own pleasure and could spare no thought for his form right now. His expression tensed, optics flashing in brief warning, before the flier bowed close to Tarn, resting his helm on his thick chestplate as a momentous overload rushed through him, flooding every system and halting any thoughts he could even remotely hope to have. 

It lasted for more than a minute, his spark in ecstatic convulsions and his servos clinging for dear life to the tankformer beneath him.

Once Pharma felt the last bit of it drain, he collapsed on Tarn, having no energy for fear or to stand up. He was weak and sated and belonged entirely to the massive hulk of a mech beneath his thighs.

 

There was a surge of amusement that Tarn didn’t try to conceal as Pharma collapsed on him. He slowly pulled his servo out from under Pharma, resting it on the mech’s back without much care for what it would do to his plating.

“I hope you saved some energy for repairing me,” he reminded the exhausted medic on his chest. “I won’t be leaving until you do. There’s also the matter of cleaning up this mess.”

It was times like these that Tarn remembered why he preferred to hold back until Pharma was spent. The medic was easier to leverage and Tarn still kept himself in check. Add the view, and well…

He tapped Pharma’s back before his servo went to rest on his aft. Though there was no doubt that Pharma had enjoyed the whole thing, his continued silence was… odd. The medic was always ready with a snippy little comment, no matter what.

“Pharma?” He kept his tone soft for practical reasons only, of course.

 

Pharma had temporarily forgotten about his vocalizer, but he’d also be hard-pressed to engage it now, with the rest of him in restful recharge. He didn’t start out with much energy and the overload had stripped the last of it out of him. Which was why he was draped over Tarn, engine humming quietly, frame entirely prone.

 

“Pharma.  _ Pharma _ .” To Tarn’s growing disbelief, Pharma was actually -- he was  _ recharging.  _ On  _ Tarn _ .

_ Without repairing him or cleaning anything. _

The sheer nerve of him.

Tarn debated the pros of waking him up (repair, not having to clean things himself, Pharma being awake) versus the cons (nagging, Pharma being awake). It was a tough debate that ended with him sighing and putting the medic into a bridal carry. He still had a unit to deal with as well, and a mess to handle.

With a discreet push, Tarn sent the berth to a corner.  _ No. _

It was in the medibay, therefore it was Pharma’s responsibility. The only issue now was avoiding his team, so…

He pulled up his comms.  _ ::Report to the bridge. I felt a tremor.:: _

It was nice having such obedient subordinates. Tarn was still quick to locate his quarters and the small washrack within. There was no time for a dedicated bath and lounging period, unfortunately, but Tarn made do as he wiped Pharma and himself down. It took some scrubbing to get it all out, because Pharma had to make trouble for him even when they were only interfacing, but the transfluid was soon gone.

Right. Another minute to place Pharma on the berth, adjust him so he was comfortable -- because Tarn had to also sleep there, and only for that reason -- and he was out, striding to the bridge.

“Tarn, we checked and -- why’re you damp?”

_ Ah _ . Tarn ignored Helex, seemingly deaf for those three seconds, and sat in the captain’s chair, busying himself with the console.

“You haven’t been repaired either?”

Wow, what an interesting console, seriously.

“You have scratches on you.”

This ship’s name was  _ Dauntless _ . What a nice name.

“Tarn!”

With a grimace, Tarn pulled himself away from the console and to his crew. He schooled his face so none of his actual emotions showed, though it would have been much easier if he had his damn mask on.  _ Time to face the music _ .

Helex wasn’t even pretending to be looking at his console. He was watching Tarn, optics wary. No matter what, his unit  _ still  _ held a weighty respect for their commander. Even when he ignored them.

“Your repairs aren’t done,” Helex pointed out.

“There was another issue,” Tarn smoothly deflected, “in my code. He was preoccupied with that, so surface damage was left for later. The doctor has retired now.”

“You let him go without finishing the job?”

“He was tired.”

“And since when have  _ you  _ cared about things like that? What happened to  _ absolute excellence _ ?”

“Don’t tell me how to administrate my division,” Tarn warned him. Tesarus tensed from where he was manning the navigations by Vos. Both were spying them out the corner of their optics, looking between them as if watching a tennis match.

“So now he’s part of the division?”

“I thought that was clear when I said he was going to be our medic.”

“We already have one.”

“She abandoned us.”  _ Don’t go there _ , his tone warned.  _ Don’t touch  _ **_that_ ** _. _

For once, Helex seemed to take heed. “He’s going to be temporary, right? He’s an Autobot.”

“Was.”

“What?”

“He  _ was  _ an Autobot,” Tarn said, unable to reason why he was taking offense to such a simple mistake, “Pharma realized he was wrong. He turned and he follows the Decepticons now.”

“ _ Pharma _ ,” Helex said. “ _ Pharma _ , who you disappeared with for --”

_ “Enough!” _ Tarn’s tone didn’t become a yell, but Helex gagged, doubling over his station as all his servos went to clutch his chest. Vos and Tesarus also flinched, holding their pained sparks. Tarn didn’t loosen his power on them often, but when he did, it was because he meant  _ business _ .

“I said Pharma will be our medic. That is final. When I desire your opinion, I will  _ ask  _ for it. Until then --  _ keep quiet _ .”

More pained gasps. Tarn waited for the spasms to die down, his gaze never leaving Helex’s. The rebellious light stayed until Tarn’s grip on his armrest tightened, and it dimmed down to weak fear. Helex turned back to his station, somehow shrinking on himself.

“...understood.”

“Good,” was the curt reply. “Let me take the opportunity to make some matters clear. If Pharma acts up, or disobeys, or shows any attitude, it will be reported to me so I can handle disciplinary measures. While there is a certain amount of… acceptance to any intra-unit actions, anything that actively hampers Pharma’s ability to function as our medic will be seen as sabotage.”

Everyone knew sabotage might as well be treason. The discomfort among the unit rose a notch. Tarn looked around, meeting each one’s optics for a brief second until they looked away.

“When the doctor calls you in for rearming,” he continued softly, “You will all go in and obey all his orders. I will not tolerate a unit that is anything less than ready to kill. Am I understood?”

There was a chorus of positives. Tarn smiled, before settling back now that he’d gotten everything in order.

A brief, pregnant pause.

“So… uh, what’s with the mask?”

_ Perhaps I spoke too soon _ .

“Lost in the struggle with Megatron,” Tarn said, tone telling Tesarus to end it here.

Tesarus fidgeted. “It’s…”

Tarn glared.

“I mean, your face is…”

His glare hardened.

Tesarus decided that it was, in fact, better that he stop here.

And peace returned. Eventually, Tarn called off his standing order and everyone escaped now that he deemed them all uncomfortable enough. Tarn trudged back to his room, where Pharma still was, locked the door, and fell down onto the berth next to him with a huff. Recharge took him within seconds.

Tarn might have revised his decision to let Pharma sleep beside him when his recharging body curled around Pharma’s, wrapping an arm around him to pull him close. But he was sleeping, so he only curled in closer, and continued to recharge deeply.


	10. Chapter 10

It was the most restful recharge Pharma had in years. And that was no exaggeration, because Autobot care had been anything but comforting for the flier. Without time to think or worry or even control his field, Pharma had fallen into recharge the moment his overload subsided and didn’t leave it until what felt like an eternity later.

 

Onlining his systems slowly, one by one, was a leisure he hadn’t had the privilege of indulging in for a long stretch of time either. There was a layer of a field draped all around his own, roiling in short, gentle bursts against him. It felt protective, and soothing and Pharma took a long minute or two just to feel it permeate his senses. It was...nice. Comforting. It held him as much as the massive limb around his waist did.

 

Wait.

 

Pharma onlined his optics properly, letting the room come into sharp focus as he looked down to identify the dark servo that held his thigh and hip pressed close to a much larger frame.

 

Tarn was always so very tactile, but this? This felt tender. Tender enough for Pharma to know that if he pointed it out, Tarn would make it his mission to show Pharma just how very un-tender he could be.

 

The flier took this rare opportunity and turned in the tight grasp. Tarn was still sans mask, and ridiculously handsome. His scars gave him a jagged sort of beauty, suitable for his brutish overall appearance. Pharma moved closer, tried to mold himself to the tankformer who looked dangerous even when he was entirely still.

 

His servo brushed over Tarn’s helm, touch so light it wouldn’t stir a turbofox. Pharma could appreciate Tarn like this. He could even lean in and kiss the mech without fearing any reciprocation. His Tarn. The viciously possessive nature of his feeling had him perplexed for a second before he moved into acceptance. Tarn was responsible for his life. Falling out of his favour meant falling into the bloodthirsty hands of his division.

  
  


Tarn was a deep sleeper for the most part. He could wake up on command during a situation, of course, but otherwise, he found an almost hedonistic enjoyment in the luxury of sleeping and waking slowly. The spike of wakefulness got a sleepy sigh from Tarn, and the movement only a low, tired snuffle. He shifted, trying to realign their plating again.

He rumbled, then pulled on Pharma. Hooking his arm around his waist, Tarn drew him closer until he was tucked in under his chin, frames touching each other as close as he could make them. It still wasn’t enough, and Tarn put his leg over Pharma as well, pulling his knees in close.

 

Pharma felt like he was trapped in a crusher, but in a good sense. If that was possible. Tarn didn’t seem to want an ounce of separation between them whatsoever. Which was fine, but he didn’t give Pharma any choice in the matter. He just held him close, as if...as if what? He couldn’t bear to have him leave?

The flier indulged the thought. What if Tarn was so fond of him (in this theoretical situation in his mind) that he couldn’t even recharge without Pharma at his side? It pleased the jet an obscene amount to consider it that way and he indulged the fantasy of being more than a convenient, beautiful medic, but rather, the mech Tarn pledged his fanatic loyalty to. The mech that Tarn would tear his own spark out for, just to offer him something to make him smile. Pharma could handle that kind of worship, that kind of dedication and love. He’d relish being its recipient, unlike Megatron, who had no idea of the kind of resolution it took to become something else than protocols dictated and still remain in control. 

Pharma spun his mad dream further, tracing idle patterns on Tarn’s chest. Which, in his mind, would open to him, offer him his spark for Pharma to sneer at, then to accept, out of mercy and kindness for the poor, mad monster at his pedes. 

Oh, he would take pity and accept Tarn’s fervent, feverish whispers of love confession and he’d be benevolent, allow the tankformer to kiss his frame and conquer the known universe for him. 

Pharma hummed, letting himself sink down on the broad chassis with a smile on his lips. Ambition was always better than hope.

 

Distantly, Tarn unhurriedly ambled into consciousness, waking up in parts. His field spiked before falling into another lull, stretching out to its limits before shrinking to hover just off his plating. His sensors came on first -- temperature, pressure, lights, occupants in the room -- and Tarn lazily parsed the information. Finally, his physical body caught up with the rest of him.

He stretched, plating fluffing out as far as it would go and leaving wide swathes of his protoform exposed. As he moved to stretch his arms out, however, he realized there was someone there. He was  _ holding  _ someone.

Optics flared to life, checking the room’s corners briefly, before resting on the medic Tarn was currently cradling. He was in no hurry to get out of this position -- that meant more moving, stuff his body hadn’t quite woken up enough for -- and chose to frown at Pharma instead.

“You went into recharge,” he said, accusing.

 

“And whose fault is that?” Pharma dared to quip back, feeling falsely confident with his vision of an ideal future still tumbling through his mind. He tucked it away to memory for now, this precious gem of a dream. 

“I was perfectly willing to continue working, but you enticed me to spend my time differently.” Pharma wasn’t inclined to move and he didn’t try either. Tarn draped all around him was part of his comfort and even though he was awake and needed to be handled with infinitely more delicacy, Pharma no longer believed the tank was ready to kill him at any given moment.

“If you’re going to abandon your duties so readily, perhaps it’s time we cease such activities permanently,” Tarn didn’t accept the excuse for what it was. He used the closeness their current position offered to wrap one servo around the back of Pharma’s neck, and drag him a little further away. “I expect my repairs be done soon, Pharma.”

His gaze flicked down, examining.

“I see that you were tired enough that even  _ basic decency _ escaped you.”

 

Pharma didn’t need to look down. His systems had been pinging him since he awoke of what kind of state he was in. With a quick little snap, his panel closed. He’d have to keep it that way for a while to assuage Tarn’s mood, which was a stark contrast to how he held Pharma against his frame.

“My  _ apologies _ , Tarn. I’m recharged well. I can see to your needs now.”

It was perhaps the first time Pharma had tried to be seductive with the tankformer. It was an exciting new prospect that he severely hoped would work out. And if it helped him avoid being in the presence of the DJD, that would be even better. Giddy, nervous excitement helped give him confidence for the way he met Tarn’s gaze. Tarn had no experience of Pharma turning up the charm, because the flier  _ never  _ had.

 

The barb Tarn had been waiting for never came. Instead, Pharma was looking at him expectantly, offering his help without even a single insult attached to it. In Tarn’s experience, Pharma’s being polite usually coincided with Pharma wanting something, or Pharma planning something.

He released his neck and pulled away from the flier, sitting up on the berth. Tarn had no excuse to punish him with Pharma being so compliant -- which was probably why he was restraining that poison glossa -- but he didn’t need to maintain that false intimacy any longer than he already had. It’d been nice to hold Pharma like that, to have that kind of contact in a context that wasn’t brutal torture, but each second Tarn spent holding him was another second he risked looking tractable to the medic. As far as Pharma was concerned, Tarn was untouchable and immoveable. Anything else was unacceptable in the parameters of the deal.

“Can you do the repairs here?” he asked instead, flexing his wounded leg. It was still weak and small wires trailed out of the knee joint. Going to the medibay would be better, but Tarn and getting repaired by Pharma seemed to have secondary consequences better handled here.

 

“Some of them, yes.” Pharma mourned the loss of their closeness for just a second. Tarn would be a lengthy project to obtain, but now that the medic had time to adjust his perspective, he was willing to be patient, even put up with the rest of his team of murderers.

“I can tend to your strut now.” Pharma clambered off of the berth, stretching his frame out and surveying himself for scratches or damages. Apart from his crumbled forearm, everything looked in place and functional. He really needed a layer of polish after buffing out some dents, but otherwise, he looked as appealing as ever.

Tarn’s leg would take an hour to weld. The strut was badly damaged where Overlord had ripped out a part of it, but Pharma had learned to make do with very little replacement parts.

“I can bypass the hydraulics and weld in an additional seam, which will give you back full functionality. It won’t look pretty, but cosmetic repairs can always come later.” 

Pharma prepared his servos, letting his fingers trail over the afflicted area. He’d apply his skill to Tarn’s complete satisfaction, not just his medical needs. Another notion struck him as useful to ask, and Pharma looked up briefly.

“Is there something I should be calling you in front of...your division? Tarn is a little...personal, isn’t it?”

 

Tarn stretched out his leg so Pharma could have better access. It twinged when he moved it, but it wasn’t painful, merely irritating. “Do it,” he nodded. Cosmetics were usually the last things on he and his unit’s mind, even though Nickel always nagged them about maintaining their appearances.

There was a pang, under the icy anger Tarn directed at her.

“How long will cosmetic repairs go?” he asked. The strut was the most major damage to his frame right now, but he still had various dents and tinier gashes that needed welding, along with the sanding down of the welds and filling in the smaller cracks. “And how are your metal-working skills?”

Tarn still needed a new mask, after all. He’d exposed his face long enough and it was growing increasingly uncomfortable whenever he caught sight of someone staring at him. Besides it being a symbol of his dedication to the Decepticons, Tarn simply  _ didn’t  _ like exposing his face. It felt wrong to look in the mirror and see the grey metal, mottled on one side, staring back at him rather than smooth purple. The mask was more his face than his actual one was.

“Everyone calls me Tarn,” he said, digits drifting up to touch the jagged scar on the left side of his face, “You calling me something else would be strange.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d be so lax about rank, but if you say so.” Pharma dedicated himself to Tarn’s strut, a simple, if slow repair. 

“Cosmetics depend on spare parts. I haven’t had the chance to check the medibay for stock.” He’d been entirely too occupied with the hostile patients he was now in charge of, thanks to this eccentric fanatic of a mech. Pharma liked these quarters. He cast subtle glances around, noting that it was probably the best cabin aboard the tiny ship. Tarn could have made him stay in the medibay itself or, and Primus preserve him if it ever came to that, stay with the rest of the DJD.

The metal-working question caught him off-guard though. He was a medic. Of course he could fashion the pieces he needed for surgery and such in a pinch, but other mecha were better suited to dealing with the high temperatures and tedious work.

“I wouldn’t call it my best skill-set, but I am adequate at metal-work. Depending on how intricate the piece you need has to be. What did you have in mind?”

 

“Not laxity -- it’s in the interests of trying to make you fit in. You’re not going to be the  _ special one  _ calling me something else.” Tarn watched Pharma work. There was something fascinating about seeing a forged medic work. Their moves were natural, ridiculously quick, and artful in the easy efficiency they employed.

“I need a new mask,” Tarn answered. “And a red optic. The mask’s design shouldn’t be too hard -- the most complicated part to it are the locks.”

 

Pharma tried to keep the distaste from his faceplate. A new mask. The design was bound to be the same as the old. And Tarn wanted Pharma to craft it? The only mech aboard this vessel who didn’t believe in the values it represented? It was kind of ironic, wasn’t it?

“I know the specifics of your helm. I can do it,” of course he could. Nothing like that was beyond him, though he would make it with the greatest disdain. Not only because of what it represented, but Pharma rather liked having open access to Tarn’s face.

“I know all of your specifications, after all.”

 

“How do -- ah. The brig.” Tarn didn’t like the idea of Pharma knowing his frame that well. It felt… off. Too close. But Pharma had acquiesced to crafting the mask for him, so Tarn didn’t try to protest. He sent a disdainful glance at the bare patch of metal on Pharma’s chest.

“After that, we’ll have to discuss your induction into the Decepticons. Make you a badge, weld it on, pledge you in, all of that. The formal registry is lost, unfortunately, but we can start a new one. After that, we hunt Megatron.”

And that was all of Tarn’s plans for the foreseeable future. Anything beyond killing Megatron was cast in shadows that Tarn had no desire to uncover.

 

That future didn’t match up with Pharma’s plans whatsoever. He knew that Tarn would seek to make him a Decepticon, but he also figured that he wouldn’t be ‘worthy’ of it in the optics of the tankformer. He wasn’t the slightest bit enthusiastic about Megatron’s former, doomed regime. Putting off the branding was going to be high on his list of priorities. But he’d have to do so without inspiring Tarn’s ire. The vision of a worshipping, subservient Tarn was still vivid in his mind. And he craved it, with every spiteful inch of his spark.

“What about a ship? This is hardly...a worthy vessel. It’s little more than a shuttle.”

Good idea, actually. Keep Tarn distracted, keep him on technicalities. Megatron was untouchable. Pharma had to admit to that when he had free run of the Peaceful Destiny. Megatron was under the care and protection of Optimus Prime and that mech had means at his disposal.

“As far as I know, the Peaceful Tyranny wasn’t destroyed. Someone took it though, which was why it wasn’t reduced to atoms.”

 

“The  _ Peaceful Tyranny  _ is currently out of reach,” Tarn said sharply, “We are already on our way to a Neutral outpost for resupply and a new vessel. Megatron is a priority target, moreso than secondary traitors like the ones who took it. In the meantime, your branding can proceed. You pledge yourself, or you die. There is no  _ other option _ .”

Pharma’s attempt to slither out of his branding was so clear that he might as well have jumped up and shouted it. The medic hadn’t bothered to conceal his distaste for the Cause, or his general opinion of Decepticons.

It was a state of affairs that, in Tarn’s opinion, couldn’t be allowed to last any longer than absolutely necessary.

 

Damn it to the Pit. He wasn’t going to pull anything over Tarn with this method. The branding was going to be a whole mess of discomfort, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t remove it eventually. Allegiances came and went, as he was starting to become an expert on.

“Do you really take a piece of spark-casing?” he asked, curious and trying to keep any contempt out of his voice. Decepticons were such brutes, always impressed by meaningless acts of violence and brutality. Did they even have a pledge for medics to take? Was it different than what Autobot medics did? Would he have to change his name? He severely hoped not. He liked his designation.

 

“Everyone does. Each badge is forged out of the sparkchamber’s sentio metallica, especially in the old guard of the Decepticons. It’s the deepest way to show your loyalty -- by sacrificing the one part of ourselves we can never replace, it marks us as all equals under the Cause’s banner. No one is exempt to this rule. This badge,” Tarn tapped the one on his chest. It clinked under his claw, glimmering, “is forged out of my sparkchamber.”

He gave the bare metal where Pharma’s old badge once was a lofty look. “The Autobots, I hear, make it from simple metal or just  _ paint  _ it on. How can you declare yourself to a faction when you can’t even make a small sacrifice? Loyalty, it seems, doesn’t seem a very  _ strong  _ point for them, does it?”

 

“There is a difference between loyalty and self-mutilation.” Pharma hissed it before he could restrain himself, overturning his decision to play submissive and nicely until Tarn embraced him deeper into his circle. His damn glossa just slipped out of his control.

He shouldn’t defend Autobots. He didn’t feel like he needed to prove a point, or agree with them anymore, but Decepticons and their pledges were ridiculous, nevermind that their war was over and the Decepticon cause long extinct.

“I never took a pledge. It was convenient to be an Autobot medic on Cybertron, waiting for an important station.”

 

“You’ll understand eventually -- because you’ll be just as  _ mutilated  _ as I am,” Tarn said, amused. “Don’t worry too much. I’ll keep my servos steady when I extract the metal from you.”

He could see why Pharma, an outsider, would take an exception to this practice. But people didn’t know true loyalty, not until they gave every part of their being for their cause. A mech like Pharma, Autobot only out of convenience and concern for his social status, could never comprehend something so vast. It was currently beyond his selfish little spark.

Still, Tarn wouldn’t mind trying to teach Pharma. He would have to understand, eventually, because the other option was death. And Pharma was  _ very  _ good at avoiding death.

“Sacrifice is loyalty,” Tarn said simply, “You gave up your ‘important station’ -- if you can call Messatine that -- and the flimsy values of Autobothood when you agreed to my deal. Even now, you continue to give, each time you follow me into the berth and repair my unit. What is another sacrifice more?”

 

Pharma wanted to point out venomously that he didn’t have a choice about repairing the ungrateful unit in question and it was no willing gift on his part to be in their presence either. But the truth of his willingness to follow Tarn was undisputable. He’d had the choice. And he made it.

It still didn’t mean he’d be happy about giving up part of his sparkchamber, let alone opening it up for Tarn to touch. That...that image terrified him. There was a degree of exposure and vulnerability that Pharma never wanted to reach, but Tarn would undoubtedly take him there.

“I don’t have a choice about this. Is it still loyalty if the sacrifice is unwilling?”

 

“You do have a choice. You can tell me you don’t want to be a Decepticon, and I can kill you. See? Choice.”

It wasn’t as if Pharma hadn’t made his decision from the beginning anyway. After all, who had repaired Tarn, pulling him away from the edge of death? Who took his chains off and unleashed him back into the galaxy?

Pharma liked to pretend he never had a choice in any of this and that everything he did was because of Tarn.  _ Liar _ .

“You are a very poor liar, Pharma.”

 

Ratchet would agree with Tarn on this particular notion. Pharma shrugged his shoulders, though it caused no disturbance to his servos or their work.

“Perhaps I didn’t follow you out of interest in the Decepticon cause, Tarn.” 

He had to wonder what exactly Tarn believed to be his motivation. Pharma felt strangely defiant of the notion that he’d come out of fear and addiction, even though he knew it was most likely the case. Power....Tarn still had power. Pharma would find a way, have access to it and make sure it could surround him and would protect him. How exactly he would get to this perfect point in time, he was not sure yet.

But it certainly would have to include letting Tarn brutalize his sparkcasing.

 

“You followed me because there is nothing else for you but to follow. I, however, have no use for those who follow me out personal desires. If you want to be at my side, it will be as a Decepticon.”

It was a small ego boost to know that Pharma had abandoned everything he knew because of Tarn himself. But as interesting as the notion was, the Cause  _ was  _ Tarn’s entirety, and vice versa. If Pharma followed Tarn, he followed the Cause. There was no other option because there could  _ be  _ no other option. A future where Tarn was no longer a Decepticon was a future he was dead.

“I don’t see why you’re so opposed to this. What were you expecting, if not this?” 

 

“I don’t know.” Pharma was surprised by his own honesty. But really, he simply hadn’t thought things through, and he would be stuck with the version of the future that Tarn’s frantic mind came up with. Decepticons, Megatron, hunting and killing for a dead cause. It was all out of his power.

The best thing Pharma could do is go with it. Adapt. Survive in this new set of circumstances he’d thrown himself into.

“I’m not objecting. I pledged myself to your side the moment I freed you from certain death.” Pharma looked up, trying to commit the effect of Tarn’s temporary, odd optics into his mind. Soon, it would all return to the cool, careless demeanour of the mask, burning carmine judging his every move.

“Perhaps, if there is an opportunity...I could use some upgrades.”

 

“Upgrades?” Tarn tried to imagine what kind Pharma would ask for. Speed? More armor? Weaponry?

The idea of Pharma possibly losing his slim figure flashed through his processor, and Tarn grimaced. “Nothing too large, I expect?”  _ Something smaller… arm-mounted missiles? No, that’s too much like Starscream… _

He reached out to touch the edge of Pharma’s wings. They felt thin under his digits, so easily snapped. “Thicker armor might be due, however. You’re far too fragile.” He tweaked it, feeling the metal bend just a bit. “I have to hold back while simply touching you. It’s no wonder Helex managed to break your forearm so easily.”

 

Pharma tried to flick his wing out of Tarn’s grip, uncomfortable as always that he’d be damaged. He was not flimsy, but delicate. There was no need for thick armor on a medic and he doubted that anyone but the DJD themselves would be doing damage to him.

“I’m a fast flier. I don’t want bulky armor to slow me down. But if I am to work your unit and your thick plating, I may need something more powerful than a laser scalpel to make incisions. I was thinking about a surgical saw, actually.”

 

Tarn’s grip on the wing tightened. He looked at Pharma, then deliberately, slowly, ran his thumb down the hook. These small defiances of his  _ really  _ needed to be remedied at some point. Just because Tarn couldn’t find them too objectionable didn’t mean they should be allowed to exist.

“A saw?” He pictured Pharma with one at the end of his wrist, replacing the slim blue servo. “You will keep all your servos if you get an upgrade like that, yes?”

A saw might be useful, especially if thicker parts needed cutting. “It needs ununtrium on it, if it’s going to be of any use.”

 

“Of course.” Pharma squirmed under the grip. His wingtips were such obvious targets, but he still never got them reinforced. Maybe he would appreciate a partner trying to play with them at some point, but he could never find pleasure in the firm, possessive grip Tarn held him with. He wasn’t even being defiant, he just wanted to avoid any more injuries.

“It won’t affect my servos but it could cut down the time needed for procedures if I don’t have to cut at an agonizingly slow pace. Like right now.” He wanted to curl back to recharge, because a sleeping Tarn had been much better company than the conscious one.

 

“If you have time to complain, you have time to repair.” Tarn watched Pharma squirm with interest. There might be something to do to fill the long wait here after all. He shifted closer, observing Pharma as Tarn stroked the wing closest to him.

He’d never paid much attention to them besides when he used them to manhandle Pharma and punish him. Involving them in interface was too much effort for too little, in his opinion. But they had all the time they could want here now, didn’t they? And since Pharma was one of his subordinates -- as well as berthmate, for however long that lasted -- it wouldn’t be amiss for him to acquaint himself more closely with the particulars of his frame.

“You dislike this?” he inquired.

 

“Yes. No. It depends on how...you continue.” Pharma was right about one thing in all of this; Tarn could not keep his servos off of him. It was the most important ingredient to his recipe for success and survival and it somewhat assuaged his affront about having to give up part of his sparkcasing.

The work on Tarn’s strut was far from finished, but it was the tankformer’s fault for distracting him from it. His wingtips fluttered beneath the attention, stiff and limited in their range of motion. It made Pharma burn with the need to transform when others took hold of the tips like this.

 

“I will continue as I please. Do your work.”

Pharma’s wings were pleasantly smooth, glossy in the lights, and warm. They were lovely to look at, though Tarn couldn’t help but be privately disappointed that the myth about wings and their sensitivity weren’t true with Pharma. It was silly anyway, but it could’ve provided another avenue of attack.

He felt out its dimensions, tracing the edges and running his palm over the broad sides. “Do you have any seams on this?”

 

“I do...” Pharma wondered if he had ever transformed in Tarn’s sights. Certainly not slow enough for the tankformer to watch the intricate way his seams moved and parted and how his wings formed to complete the mere tips Tarn was fondling right now.

“They’re not external. I’m built for speed and precision.”

The pride that seeped into his voice was unmistakable and unavoidable. Pharma had always been spectacularly vain about his frame and here was a brute who could perhaps appreciate him.

 

Tarn tried to visualize the altmode that went along with the frame. He’d seen it from a distance a few times, but never close enough to make out details. Pharma was a flier, a jet, and he had to be a small, slim one with that kind of frame…

“Transform,” Tarn ordered, mind made up. “Slowly.” A side-effect of his transformation addiction -- or maybe just another aspect -- was his constant curiosity of other’s people’s altmodes. There was a certain satisfaction from seeing the way their parts turned and slid into place, how it all fit together so  _ neatly _ . If Pharma’s looks were any indication, his transformation had to be just as pleasing to the optic.

 

The repairs weren’t finished, but Pharma had a feeling that if he didn’t obey Tarn, he would be the one in need of surgery. Tarn was always so very peculiar about transformations, and it seemed that interest wasn’t limited to his own, or just the feeling of his favoured physical activity. Pharma had plenty of visions of burned out t-cogs, black sludge that ran too hot to be comfortable inside of anyone. 

With a sigh, he stood, gently tugging out of Tarn’s grasp. His transformation sequence was a symphony of soft sliding motions and internal rather than external seams opening up and connecting every part of his frame into place with a fluidity that any non-forged mech could only dream of. Everything on Pharma was sleek and built to look pleasing, move silently and fit without any gaps or grooves.  His turbine whirred to life, finally needed for something other than to express his easily enticed heating protocols. The last part that slid into place was his cockpit, framing what remained of his helm and protectively shielding some delicate sensors beneath thick, tinted glass. 

Hovering before Tarn in his flying alt mode certainly felt awkward. His wingtips were no longer fragile, now reinforced by long beams of metal that supported the structure from underneath. Nothing was exposed for Tarn to fiddle with now and it had Pharma curious as to what he’d choose to do now.

 

Tarn had long given up on trying to explain why he felt so drawn to transformations. It might be the sensation of it -- being reformed so totally -- or the mental satisfaction each successful transformation gave him. Yet, he couldn’t explain why watching Pharma’s transformation sequence felt so delightfully…  _ gratifying _ .

There were the sounds. Soft, complete sounds of metal shifting on each other, plating sliding into locks that fit only them. Then the sight; like a visual orchestra of everything moving in perfect tandem to create a wholly new shape. It all came together to create a sensory feast for Tarn, and the only part missing was  _ touch _ .

He leaned forward, brushing his servo over the nosecone. He continued upwards, stroking the seam between the metal and the glass of the cockpit. Pharma’s alt was as beautiful as his rootmode -- all aerodynamic lines that hinted at fierce mastery in the sky, lacking extra, needless ornamentation for a naked kind of beauty.

He touched whatever part of the underside he could reach, though his attention was mostly on the cockpit.

_ Lovely _ , he thought, then realized it had been out loud.

 

Pharma would have preened if he wasn’t in his altmode. He knew he was a fierce kind of beautiful and of course Tarn, transformation addict, would find pleasure in it. Any Cybertronian would, if they were brutally honest. Pharma hovering before Tarn was its own kind of strain and the jet quelled the urge to show off his flight patterns and aerial skills to the mech before him. Not that he could, in the limited space aboard this ship. 

When Tarn’s claws rested candidly on his undercarriage, Pharma’s engine purred. He could almost alight on those strong servos, though he wouldn’t dare put his weight on Tarn just to be in his grasp. Who knew when the next moodswing would have the tank remember that Pharma still had work to do?

 

Tarn really would have liked to spend a good amount of time just exploring Pharma’s alt mode. It was deliciously beautiful just from a brief look, so how many little secrets did it hide? Yet, when he shifted closer again, his leg protested slightly and Tarn frowned. There was still work to finish.

“Get back to work,” he said, even though he dearly would’ve liked to make Pharma settle down somewhere so Tarn could run his servos over his plating. That would have to come later, unfortunately.

 

Over so quickly? Pharma was a little put out, but he knew when to feign obedience. His transformation back to root mode was just as smooth, though a lot quicker. He settled back onto the ground, then bent over Tarn’s leg once more. It really would be much easier with a saw, damn that thick plating.

He made a mental note of it though, the way Tarn had looked at him, touched his altmode with what could almost be described as reverence but was far more likely to be fascinated indulgence.

“Of course.”


End file.
